


Let Them In

by chothocolate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Multi, Pansmione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:27:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chothocolate/pseuds/chothocolate
Summary: Eighth Year was supposed to be an opportunity for inter-House unity and the chance to for Hermione to finally finish school. But when Slytherins start walking the corridors in groups of four, Hermione realises the wizarding world hasn't put the war behind it as well as she thought.In which Hermione needs a good night's sleep, Harry won't stop swearing, Ron needs a new roommate and Pansy just needs a break.





	1. You Have Mail

_Dear Hogwarts Student,_

_You are cordially invited to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this September to complete a new Eighth Year offered to all previous seventh year students whose education was interrupted by the events of the war as an opportunity to finish your N.E.W.T.S.._

_Please return the following form if you wish to return to Hogwarts._

_Yours,_

_Professor Minerva McGonagall,_

_Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

Pansy sighed, throwing the letter down on the table and passing a sausage to the large tawny owl now seated gracefully on the back of her chair. The owl hooted happily, devouring the sausage in one gulp before flying out the open window, leaving as though it had never been there. She ignored the single raised eyebrow she was receiving from her mother from across the table, resolving to instead continue with her breakfast, pretending the letter had never arrived.

The end of the wizarding war had spelt trouble for the Parkinson family. They had been ostracised completely by society, particularly following the conviction of the Lord Parkinson, leaving Pansy and her mother alone in what remained of Parkinson Park. The pair had a rocky relationship before the destruction of their entire family and livelihood, more than ever when Pansy expressed the opinion, on arriving home to the mansion, that she was _glad Voldemort was dead, because what good did he ever do for us? His whole fucking cause is bullshit._ Her mother had admonished her, criticising her for betraying the family name, putting scorn upon the hard work she and her father had put in to get Pansy a better life; neither had spoken to the other for weeks following, barely returning to civil conversation in late August.

“Are you going to tell me what this letter is, Pansy?” Her mother said, her usual sneer playing on her lips.

Pansy sighed, taking her time to sip her tea before responding, “I will be returning to Hogwarts this September,” She said, smiling internally at her mother’s shocked and scandalised expression on her mother’s face before it returned to her usual composed and unimpressed expression.

“And I expect you will be returning to Slytherin?”

“I assume so,” Pansy replied, trying not to roll her eyes at her mother’s barely concealed disapproval.

“Don’t disappoint me Pansy,” Her mother said simply, barely looking at the house elves gathering up her plates and rising from the table, “And _please_ , remember the family name.” She finished, shooting Pansy a pointed look before turning away and leaving the room in the dramatic flurry of robes only truly achievable by a pureblood woman.

Pansy was, however she may try to dispute it, very much like her mother. The woman had been a role model to her as a child, a strong, independent, powerful woman who married for a title and nothing more. She had been the woman Pansy had wanted to grow up to be, the spitting image of the perfect pureblood woman with a generous dose of Parkinson sass. Pansy had idolised her, upholding this perfect image of the woman, until the war began. Druelle and Pascal Parkinson were some of the first to return to the Dark Lord’s ranks upon his return, encouraging Pansy to do the same as soon as she came of age. The couple became twisted with power lust, their once loving demeanour warped into something far uglier in the face of success at the right-hand of the Dark Lord. However hard she may have tried, Pansy couldn’t be what her parents had wanted, the girl could emulate the power lust and lack of empathy needed to be a death eater and the daughter her parents had wanted, but couldn’t deny how much it affected her.

“Fucking hell,” Pansy muttered under her breath before leaving the room in the opposite direction, deciding she needed to lie back down for a few hours.

Pansy had gotten through her seventh year with barely a kink. As a pureblood and a Slytherin, she had been safe from the Carrows despite the fear she felt whenever they entered a room, she knew how to transfigure a chair and how to brew some of the more difficult seventh year potions, she knew how to hide, and how to hide well. Pansy had learned more than just academic things from her years at Hogwarts; she knew more than anything how to hide her emotions and who she really was. There wasn’t much more Hogwarts could teach her. This new eighth year wouldn’t offer her anything, the very notion of it was ridiculous. There was nothing getting her N.E.W.T.S would give her that a few well chosen words and some not too subtle name dropping couldn’t in the world of work.

And yet Pansy felt that she owed it to herself to return for another year. That maybe it could be an opportunity, a chance for her to redeem herself and to be seen as something more than the two-faced, evil pureblood bitch she had become through her years at the school. To redeem herself, becoming more than the girl who tried to hand Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord. Pansy was terrified, and she was selfish, she refused to allow herself to be reduced to a horrible, heartless person, that would do her no good. She refused to allow herself to be judged by her actions in a moment of complete, all-consuming fear, especially when nobody really knew anything about her. She knew that Theo, Blaise, Draco and Daphne would be returning too, there was no way they would miss out on a chance to get their N.E.W.T.S, the eighth year offered them nothing but benefits, but Pansy didn’t care about that. For her, eighth year was a fresh start. A new opportunity.

“And maybe she’ll finally…” Pansy mused, neatly folding her dresses and robes and dress robes, placing magazines and muggle lipsticks and nail polishes into her trunk. Part of her felt far lighter at the idea of returning to Hogwarts. It was nice to finally have a purpose again.

 

* * *

 

“No way,” Hermione said, not masking the excitement in her voice. The letter in her hand trembled under her firm grip, she turned, looking up at her boyfriend, who’s expression looked far less excited about the prospect of returning to school than Hermione was. “Ron, isn’t this amazing?” She grinned.

“Sure, Mione,” Ron replied, forcing enthusiasm into his voice and smiling down at his girlfriend. She intentionally tried to ignore Harry’s amused chuckles from the other side of the room, where the boy was reclining on the beaten up sofa that took centre stage in the small living room of the Burrow.

“No, really! Think about it, we can maybe _finally_ have a single year of Hogwarts without having someone trying to kill us!” She was almost bouncing up and down in excitement, giddy at the idea of being able to go back to Hogwarts, finish her N.E.W.T.S and re-immerse herself into the wizarding world.

“Don’t you mean trying to kill Harry?” Ron laughed.

“Nahh, they were after you by extension,” Harry said, chipping into the conversation for the first time in the past thirty minutes. Hermione nodded in agreement, elbowing Ron in the rib when he started laughing at her over enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said smugly, “You two _are_ coming back in September, right?”

Ron and Harry nodded, each boy expressing varying degrees of enthusiasm, still not near matching Hermione’s excitement.

Hermione needed a hobby. She was desperately reaching for anything and everything to occupy her mind. Between helping in the mission to single handedly kill a dark lord, studying to get ahead at magic school and obliviating and then restoring the memories of her parents, she had never really learnt to relax. Her mind needed something to occupy it and the idleness of the summer following the Battle of Hogwarts had left her restless and unhappy. Being with Harry and Ron at the Burrow had been a small solace, the two boys were comforting to be around, but the atmosphere was heavy following the loss of Fred. George was almost never around, instead dedicating his attention to working on the shop in Hogsmeade; he, like Hermione, divulged to keep himself busy rather than truly come to terms with the after affects of the war.

The wizarding world was, it seemed, in a state of limbo following Voldemort’s defeat. It seemed the only real consistency was Harry’s popularity and time in the limelight, however even that had dwindled somewhat when the media realised that Harry had spent most of his time in the Burrow, rather than scandalising himself in the public eye. Everything that wizarding Britain had stood for was challenged, the Sacred Twenty Eight was in ruins, most of the families in the group had been directly involved in the war, more likely than not as active death eaters. The Ministry were finally reforming, removing it’s corrupt members and replacing them with far more competent, far less prejudiced members. Despite all this change, it seemed that very little was happening in Britain, it seemed the whole wizarding population were in a state of organised mourning. Hermione was grateful for the opportunity to return to Hogwarts, hoping it would offer some kind of eventfulness to the mundane and morbid tone the entire wizarding world had taken.

“It’ll be good, won’t it?” Hermione asked, hoping for some level of validation from her friends.

“It’ll be very good, Mione,” Ron said, kissing her on the top of her head before moving to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

“Don’t worry too much,” Harry said, shooting a reassuring smile her way. Hermione smiled back, somewhere between giddy excitement and pure, undulating terror. Hogwarts wasn’t what it used to be; Hermione had grown sceptical of the school and it’s faculty, having long since abandoned her blind trust of the place. She hoped, silently to not have to spend the year in fear, instead having the chance to return to Hogwarts and be happy, to go to the magical, beautiful school she had always expected it to be. Hogwarts was her first introduction to the magical world, Hermione had been transfixed, eager to learn everything she possibly could about the world and everyone in it, the culture, the food, the history, whatever Hermione could learn, she would. But the magical world had turned out to be far less perfect than she had imagined, instead full of prejudices and injustices. Hermione had faced it all first hand, being a Muggle born, and hadn’t been prepared for it. She had thought it would be a reprise from all the prejudice she faced in the muggle world, she was bullied in school for her dark skin and frizzy, curly hair, she had grown up being called all kinds of names and had expected Hogwarts to be nothing like that but instead was constantly being picked on for being a ‘mudblood’. But maybe, she thought, this year would be different. Without Voldemort and the death eaters, people’s prejudices would maybe end, or at least not be as tolerated. She was excited to return to Hogwarts, not just to learn, but to have a chance to be really happy in the Wizarding world.


	2. Express Delivery

Platform 9 3/4 was bustling, the atmosphere simultaneously more relaxed and more tense than it had been in Pansy’s whole time at the school. The number of students attending had dropped dramatically, even with the addition of the new eight years, Pansy didn’t want to think too hard about why, but she knew.

Pansy sauntered onto the train moments before it departed in a short black dress with a whiTe collar, holding onto her shrunken down and far more fashionable trunk with one perfectly manicured hand. She walked with her head held high, remembering everything her mother had taught her as a child, only with a extra heap of sugar loaded on and promptly ignoring the ‘pureblood superiority’ part of the speech she had heard so many times before. She ignored the glares and whispers surrounding her as she made her way through the train, tucking strands of her short, blunt cut hair behind her ear, barely blinking. Pansy Parkinson was perfect, or at least trying to be. Because it was so much easier for her to be perfect than to be scared, and she was terrified. Terrified of the burning hatred she was certain every person in the train was shooting her way. That she would never be able to prove herself as anything more because that was all she was. 

Because try as she might, Pansy was bad at being nice. Being nice left her open and vulnerable for anyone to manipulate, being nice made her weak to her enemies. Years of pureblood upbringing had left these facts ingrained into her very being, to the point where nice didn’t come natural. She had been brought up to harden in the face of vulnerability, to push away anyone and everyone who wanted to get too close. It was second nature to Pansy, it came almost as natural as breathing. Ingrained so deep she was terrified it had become a part of her very being, making her nothing more than the result of years of indoctrination.

“Merlin, Parkinson, you look homicidal,” Blaise’s voice was tinted with laughter as Pansy made her way into their carriage. She smiled, immediately breaking the façade of seriousness as she took in the scene. Draco, Blaise, Millicent, Daphne, Greg and Theo were all huddled around one table, almost sitting on top of each other in the cramped compartment. The group were laughing and talking with a certain amount of relaxed joviality Pansy hadn’t seen for what felt like years. She relaxed instantly, lowering herself into the seat next to Blaise, draping her long legs over his lap.

“Don’t I always?” She joked, her sneer replaced by a broad grin. Pansy felt as if she hadn’t smiled like this for so long, and all it took was her friends and a far too small, far too cold train compartment.

“Pansy!!” Millicent and Daphne’s voices cut through an inevitable snide remark from Draco, Pansy smiled at the two girls, taking in the faces again, which were similarly covered in immaculate make up, much like Pansy’s. 

Every Slytherin in the compartment had seemed to have the same idea, the girls all sported sharp, pristine make up and everyone had perfect hair, like no amount of wind or weather would ruin it. The boys, like the girls, were clad in strange mixtures of muggle and wizarding attire, something that had been almost completely unheard of in their years at Hogwarts. But despite this, the Slytherins looked immaculate, not a hair out of place or a single speck of worry on their faces. It was easy to be perfect and act immune to the stares but Pansy could tell that her friends shared in her fears, everything from the way the group laughed slightly too loudly to the minutely too perfect postures of everyone sat around the table screamed discomfort. Because Slytherins were evil. Irredeemable. And everyone sat around that table had done  _ something.  _ Something to slight the Golden Trio or to support the Dark Lord. Each and every one of them had expressed some sort of prejudice during the war, and because of this, each and every one of them became Public Enemies. 

Their compartment was near empty, it seemed nobody else had dared to sit with them. The death eater who tried to kill Dumbledore, and the sons and daughters of the people who had actively supported the regime. Despite the war being over, despite the reparations having been paid and punishments dealt, these kids remained villains. And it seemed everyone attending Hogwarts that year knew it, even the first years, unsorted and bright eyed, feared and hated them.

“This is shit, isn’t it?” Draco was the first to say what they had all been thinking, receiving nods and sounds of agreement from the Slytherins.

“Everyone hates us.” Theo said from his spot in the corner of the compartment.

“Rightly so,” Pansy snorted humorlessly, ignoring the glares from her friends. “Think about it, I tried to hand over Potter, Draco tried to kill Dumbledore, Millie, Daphne and I bullied Granger with a vengeance, Blaise, Draco and Greg bullied Potter. And Theo made the Carrows look kind by comparison.” She tried not to notice the microscopic flinches from each person as they were mentioned, with the exception of Theo.

“Yeah, I was bad, I get it., we all were.” Theo said, rolling his eyes, turning the page of the book that had somehow made its way into his hands and line of focus, “Everyone hates us all, big whoop. What’s hating yourself gonna do to change that?” 

Pansy frowned, while there was some truth in what Theo had said, she knew he wasn’t saying out of the kindness of his heart. Theo had tormented Potter and his friends as much as the others, but had also chosen to work alongside the Carrows and had become one of their favourites; she knew he regretted it somewhat, but was not one to express emotion outwardly. His blasé attitude towards it all was simply his way of dealing with it, as was Pansy’s abrasiveness, Draco’s haughtiness, Blaise and Daphne’s promiscuity and Goyle turned to blind aggression. They were, in all, experts at avoiding the problem, but still overloading with self-loathing. But maybe Theo was right. Maybe hating themselves for it wouldn’t help.

“So what? Self confidence will solve our problems?” Draco drawled, raising a single eyebrow at Theo, receiving a single, long-suffering sigh before any kind of response.

“Of course not, I’m not stupid.” Theo said, “But that doesn’t mean it won’t make this all easier.” Draco’s eyebrow remained raised, and the boy stared intently at Theo, who matched his stare, his face expressionless. Blaise broke the silence with a snort, putting himself on the receiving end of two lacklustre glares from Draco and Theo.

“Well yeah,” Daphne interjected, twirling her blonde curls around her finger, “if everybody hates me how am I supposed to find anyone to-”

“Please,” Draco said, covering her mouth with her hand, “for the sake of my sanity, do not finish that sentence.” The tension in the carriage was broken immediately as the group returned to normal, choosing to occupy themselves with coming up with as many offhand ways to describe sex as possible, putting the problem behind them, as always.

“What about ‘Porking’?” Greg suggested, receiving a broad grin from Blaise.

“That’s disgusting. I love it.”

* * *

 

Hermione groaned, looking to Harry with an expression of pure sympathy. She once again pulled down the blind in their carriage, attempting to block out the painfully large crowd that had gathered outside of the train, hoping to catch a glimpse of the  _ Famous Harry Potter.  _ Students and parents alike were all itching to see him, choosing to crowd the platform and risk their dignity in hopes of an autograph of a brief conversation. It had been like this ever since Voldemort had been defeated, wherever Harry went, people would follow; Ron was a victim of this by extension, everybody knew him as Harry’s valiant best friend who had fought alongside him bravely. Hermione had been spared from the media attention and fame, she was half relieved and half disheartened by this, nobody seemed to remember her as the orchestrator of so many of the plans that aided in Voldemort’s demise.

“I don’t think I can physically stay in this carriage anymore,” Harry groaned, grabbing his trunk and getting up from his seat. “Can we move somewhere else?” His voice was filled with desperation, making the boy sound so much younger than he had for years.

Hermione nodded. Her heart went out to Harry, all he wanted was to be normal and he had never had the chance to be that; a naive part of her had hoped that eighth year would offer the trio to just be normal Hogwarts students, even for a year. But reality didn’t care for Hermione’s wistful pining, and this was only emphasised when the blind to the carriage snapped open again, letting in a blinding jet of camera flashes catching the trio’s retreating from. 

The train began to move as they made their way through compartments, ignoring the stares and starstruck gasps from younger students. Hermione was growing antsy, even though the attention wasn’t directed at her she would much rather curl in on herself than be watched and scrutinised by so many people. Her breaths began to grow short when the whispering began. Students in younger years began to question why  _ she  _ was with Harry and Ron.  _ She’s only dating Ron to get to Harry,  _ they said,  _ she’s just been a wet blanket on their plans all these years.  _ She sighed, putting her head down as they walked into another carriage, completely oblivious to the sudden silence that filled the space, interrupting the sound of laughter and conversation that had echoed through the carriage just moments before.

Hermione looked up, confused as to why they had stopped walking. She barely concealed a gasp as she became immediately aware of the six pairs of eyes staring, unblinkingly at them. Hermione glanced up to Harry and Ron, who seemed to be having a wordless conversation, weighing up the pros and cons of sitting in a carriage with the group of Slytherins who had tormented them for years, and who had done far worse during the war.

“Hell no,” Ron finally said, breaking the silence as receiving an amused snort from Draco, who was lent elegantly against the back of his seat, despite the lack of room in the booth he was in. 

Harry rolled his eyes, moving further into the carriage and towards one of the empty booths. “Just sit down, Ron.” He said, dumping his bag on a table and throwing himself ungracefully into  window seat, strategically sitting as far from the group of Slytherins as possible. 

Ron sighed deeply, shooting a glare towards the Slytherins who were sat watching them intently. Hermione just sighed, smiling awkwardly at the group before moving to sit down as well.

“Why are we sitting in here?” Ron hissed, leaning across the table to huddle closer to Harry and Hermione.

Hermione looked at him, sighing deeply again, “It makes perfect sense, actually. I mean, this carriage is empty for a reason isn’t it? Who else is really going to come in here?” She said, smiling at Harry as he nodded in agreement. “And honestly, isn’t it about time we… I don’t know, build bridges?” She continued. 

Ron scowled, “I am  _ not  _ being friends with a bunch of Slytherins.” 

“The sentiment is returned, Weasley.” Blaise’s velvety voice interjected, earning him a glare from Ron. “But we appreciate the effort, Granger.” He added, sending a wink Hermione’s way. She flushed, taken aback by his strangely cordial behaviour, thankful for her dark skin and its ability to hide the redness she was sure would have been flooding her cheeks otherwise.

“Do you ever shut up, Zabini?” Pansy Parkinson asked, smirking at Blaise. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the girl who had been a bully to her for so many years.

“You know I don’t PanPan.” Blaise grinned, commencing an argument between the two about the use of the nickname ‘PanPan’. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh quietly, stricken by the strangeness of the uptight, arrogant, snobby Pansy Parkinson having a nickname like ‘PanPan’.

 

The rest of the train journey continued in much of the same way. Ron continued scowling about ‘sitting with Slytherins? After all they’ve done?’. Harry’s attention was almost impossible to capture for longer than a few minutes, straying off to some errant thought Hermione planned to weed out of him later, the Slytherins in question spent an ungodly amount of time alternating between petty arguments, strangely perverse topics of conversation and far more sombre, serious talks that always occurred just out of Hermione’s line of hearing. Eventually, the train journey began to seem normal. There was nothing especially unusual about sitting with the Slytherins, the occasional go-between conversation (often in response to Ron’s huffing) felt natural enough and, despite their pitfalls in character, the Slytherins were very funny. 

Hermione let out a contented sigh as the train pulled up at the platform. Hogwarts looked almost as brilliant as it had on her first day, the lights glittering in every window giving the entire castle a heavenly-looking glow. She felt a few moments of peace looking at the castle, before turning and being stunned into silence at the sight of the large, skeletal horses tethered to the carriages. Hermione knew she would undoubtedly be able to see the Thestrals after the battle, but hadn’t quite prepared herself for the shock. She glanced over to Ron, who’s expression matched her own, and then to Harry, who walked up to the carriages, unperturbed by the creatures pulling it. Her eyes flitted over to the group of Slytherins and she let out an involuntary gasp at how unsurprised they seemed by the sight of the Thestrals. Only Daphne seemed as shocked and unprepared for the sight of them as Hermione felt, whereas the rest, like Harry, looked at them like familiar faces.

Ron looked down at Hermione’s far shorter form, smiling grimly, “Does this ever get normal?” He asked, nodding towards the Thestrals.

Hermione looked at him, then back at the strange skeletal forms, “There’s very little in this world that can’t become normal eventually.”


	3. Bikini Kill

Hogwarts looked almost exactly the same as it had in the previous years, Hermione thought as the huddle of eighth years were being led through the school by Professor McGonagall. Even the new parts of the castle that had been refurbished over the summer blended seamlessly into the old bricks, making it almost possible to forget the immense damage that had been done. It was strange to walk down old corridors, the memories of everything that had happened in the school came flooding back. The good times and the bad echoed through every corridor, every brick and floor slab holding something, from the times Hermione would rush to and from classes, weighed down by books to the smattering of bodies littering every hallway following the final battle. She gulped, ignoring the growing lump in her throat and focusing on the twisting, turning journey they were taking through the castle towards what would be newly known as the Eighth Year Dorm.

“Alright, Eighth Years. This,” Professor McGonagall began, gesturing to the large room with a sweep of her arm, “Is your common room, where, I imagine, you will be spending a lot of your time. We have decided, as Eighth Years, you will not be segregated by your houses as you so were in your youths. It is important, particularly for you, who were affected by the war more than anyone, that you have time to integrate with and get to know the people with whom you would never interact. Your room pairings are displayed on that board in the corner and as I’m sure you will all notice, you will be sharing with someone from another house. I encourage you to enter these pairings with an open mind, allow yourself to develop an understanding of people you will have never gotten to known previously. I will leave you to unpack, your trunks are in your rooms already.” She shot a smile at the group of confused and excited looking teenagers in front of her before turning out of the room, her robes billowing behind her.

House unity. The concept was previously unheard of in Hogwarts. While friendships did occur between houses, people from different houses had never had the opportunity to coexist. Hogwarts was more polarised than anywhere Hermione had ever been, Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws studied and learned together, but ultimately did not interact by choice. Hermione was intrigued by the idea, hoping she would find herself with someone interesting, someone she would work well with, forming a friendship that would last, even outside of Hogwarts. 

Hermione took in every detail of the room. The furnishings were a mixture of all of the house colours, large yellow armchairs were adorned with soft, plush red cushions; The curtains were a dusky blue, draping over large arched windows, flooding the room with orange light from the distant sunset. Deep green sofas were placed in front of crackling fireplaces, warming the room to a comfortable temperature. Plants hung from ceilings and sat on desks and tables, there were desks against every wall, snuggled closely together with packed bookshelves but, unlike the endless shelves in the library, they were packed with a mixture of muggle and wizarding books, fiction and nonfiction. Hermione was enamoured, she felt at home in the room, thankful that she wouldn’t be staying in the Gryffindor dorms, the place held too many memories. 

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the feeling of Ron elbowing her in her side, “Room pairings?” He mouthed. Hermione nodded, moving towards the board which had already gathered a large crowd. She had to tiptoe to see over the mass of people and was still barely able to see her name on the list. 

“Who did I get? I can’t see.” Hermione asked, jumping up in hopes of getting a better look.

“You’ve got Parkinson,” Ron said, “I got Nott and Harry got-”

“Fucking Malfoy, I know,” Harry said, appearing from within the crowd, a scowl written across his face.

“Tough, mate,” Ron clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Hermione frowned, somewhat broken out of the euphoria and excitement at the her return to Hogwarts by the thought of sharing a room with  _ Pansy Parkinson.  _ The girls had never gotten along, Pansy had always seemed to find great pleasure in humiliating and bullying Hermione and Hermione had stopped taking it without response, making her and Pansy something akin to enemies. She had never truly fit in in the Gryffindor girls’ dorm as it was, caring less about makeup and boys and beauty and more about books and learning, but at least there the girls had other, more interested people to talk to and share a space with. But now, Hermione would be alone with a girl she was certain she had absolutely nothing in common with, Pansy wouldn’t have a more interested person to take up her attention and Hermione was ready to accept the inevitable awkwardness and tension. She knew she and Pansy were starkly different. Pansy was eternally adorned with immaculate hair, makeup and nails and Hermione had never seen the girl so much as study, let alone pick up a book out of her own free will. Pansy Parkinson was short skirts and crop tops, she was tall and thin and elegant, everything Hermione wasn’t. Because Hermione Granger was more comfortable around books and cats, wearing large jumpers and comfortable clothes; she was short, far shorter than most of the people in her year, and was far bigger and rounder than Pansy. No, the girls had nothing in common and this was a recipe for disaster.

This thought was emphasised further when Hermione finally tore herself away from her friends and made her way up to her room. She opened the door to be met with the sight of Pansy, stood on a chair and hanging some magical variant of muggle fairy lights around her bed, blasting out music. The song was familiar to Hermione, but she couldn’t identify it. Pansy barely looked away from the task at hand, nodding at Hermione in greeting. Hermione scowled, immediately casting away any ideas of having a quiet, peaceful room, instead doing her best to  _ tolerate  _ Pansy Parkinson and her loud music and-

“Are you planning on decorating the  _ whole room  _ with those?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask as Pansy continued to make her way closer and closer to Hermione’s side of the room, leaving tiny beads of light in her wake.

Pansy raised an eyebrow at Hermione, “Well that was the plan, but if you’d rather I keep them on my side…” Her voice was laced with humour, as if she were telling some joke Hermione couldn’t catch on to.

“Yes. I’d rather you did.” Hermione scowled, turning away from the girl and setting her sights on unpacking some of her own belongings.

“Aye aye, Captain.” Pansy responded, still with the same laughter in her voice. Hermione sighed deeply, praying to every god she could come up with that this year would go quickly.

Hermione had finished unpacking long before Pansy had, it seemed the girl intended to eradicate any of the original design of the room, having already replaced the bed sheets oh her bed, covered the wall above her headboard with small pictures and what Hermione was guessing were sketches and had resolved herself to pull out more and more pillows than Hermione thought it possible for one person to own.

“You do realise you’re going to have to pack this up in a few months when you leave for Christmas, right?” Hermione asked, looking up from the book resting against her lap. Pansy snorted, again behaving as if Hermione had said something funny.

“Speak for yourself, Granger. I’ve no intention of leaving for Christmas,” She said, closing her trunk with a snap and throwing herself onto her bed, somehow managing to land gracefully. Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at her but decided not to push it when the girl didn’t elaborate. She was hardly in the mood to have a heart-to-heart with Pansy Parkinson.

 

Things grew more awkward as the night went on. Pansy continued to play her music, albeit at a far lower volume after Hermione had complained about it for five minutes straight, Hermione continued to read, gradually worming her way into her blankets, but neither girl had closed their curtains, as if it were a competition of who would resign to sleep first. Despite the music (which Hermione had found out was muggle, and was by a band called Bikini Kill and was not at all to Hermione’s taste) the room felt too quiet, Hermione felt obligated to say something, but ultimately didn’t want to have any kind of conversation with Pansy who, it seemed, was oblivious to the awkwardness in the room and had instead divulged to paint her nails.

Eventually, Hermione gave in, breaking the silence with a mumbled, “I’m gonna go to bed.” Pansy nodded, not looking up from her nails, which had captured all of her undivided attention. Hermione frowned at the lack of response, moving into the bathroom to brush her teeth and change.

When she came back into the room, Pansy’s music was still playing, but the girl had finally torn her attention away from her nails, instead watching Hermione as she walked into the room. Hermione squirmed under Pansy’s close scrutiny, but pretended to be unaffected as she climbed into bed and moved to place her book on the night stand.

“Could you maybe turn that off?” Hermione asked, nodding towards Pansy’s record player. Pansy blinked, not reacting to Hermione’s question for a moment too long before finally moving the pin off of the record. Hermione nodded, turning off her lamp and closing the curtains surrounding her bed.

“Goodnight,” Pansy’s voice broke through the darkness, sounding slightly strained. Hermione frowned pensively, staring at the small sliver of soft light peeking between the curtains from Pansy’s fairy lights.

“Night,” She finally said, before relaxing into the velvety soft blankets surrounding her and drifting off to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, the song Pansy is listening to is 'Double Dare Ya' by Bikini Kill! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, I'm posting a new chapter every Saturday so keep an eye out next week!  
> <3


	4. Open Season

“I told you you shouldn’t have gone by yourself,” Pansy scowled, rubbing lotion on the blistered burns on Draco’s back. The boy simply tutted in response, wincing quietly as she moved from one side of his back to the other.

“I had to get to class somehow, what did you expect me to do, be late?” He retorted through gritted teeth, managing to be snarky despite the pain.

“Yes. Better late than this. Especially when you _know_ you’re more of a target.”

“You get it almost as bad as I do.” Draco said, his voice slowly returning to normal as the pain subsided.

“Yeah, that’s because I’m also more of a target,” Pansy pushed Draco’s shirt down from where it was bunched up around his shoulders, “You and I, Draco, have done enough to slight Potter to get the worst of this, so we have to be more careful.”

Draco snorted, “Like you were so careful when Emmaline Vance and her friends jumped you?”

“Yes but I, Draco dear,” Pansy said, grinning, “Am a hypocrite.”

The pair fell into a sort of humourless laughter, releasing all of the stresses of the past few weeks. The sounds echoed through the empty classroom they were sat in, breaking the slightly eerie silence. Pansy looked at Draco through her laughter, marvelling at their ability to laugh in the face of the extremely unfunny, nothing Pansy had said was funny enough to warrant the kind of laughter they were producing, but the sound came out as a release.

“This really isn’t funny,” Pansy said, not quite having recovered from her laughter.

“No, it really isn’t.” Draco agreed, sobering as the pair fell into silence.

Pansy frowned, mirroring Draco’s now serious expression. She and Draco had received the worst of the attacks on Slytherins that had been on the rise since their return to the school. The whole of Hogwarts was in mourning, and a select few students had decided to take it upon themselves to enact the justice they felt hadn’t been served. Draco, as far as they were concerned, should be rotting in Azkaban for his crimes and Pansy shouldn’t be allowed back into the school, lest she try and betray them all again. What had started as low-level bullying had escalated rapidly in very little time, the attacks became physical to the point where Pansy and Draco had arranged a buddy system, making sure no Slytherin was made to go anywhere within the school alone. Because it wasn’t just Pansy and Draco who were receiving these ‘punishments’, the ten students sorted into Slytherin that year were completely separated from their fellow students, almost every child that had joined the house had looked on the verge of tears, terrified of what Slytherin house meant, terrified that it meant they were evil and destined to do no good.

“This is fucked up,” Draco finally said, breaking the silence.

“This is what we did to muggleborns,” Pansy replied.

“ _We_ didn’t.”

“But we didn’t stop it, did we?”

“You think we deserve this?” Draco asked, looking at Pansy incredulously. Pansy didn’t respond, turning her attention to worrying her bottom lip.

“Don’t you?” She eventually said, not looking directly at Draco. A large part of Pansy truly did think they deserved this. They had gotten out of the war with next to no punishment; sure, they had faced loss following the war, in some ways more than any of their attackers, but they hadn’t done enough to help, instead choosing to be selfish and only care for themselves. Slytherins were self-preserving by nature, but Pansy was worried they had took that too far, protecting themselves and leaving others to suffer. She frowned, staring off into the space near the now boarded up window. Self loathing was not a pureblood trait, she had been taught to never put herself down, never decrease herself to be like the revelry, but Pansy found herself doubting every single thing she had ever been taught, finding the selfishness in it all.

“Pans, no.” Draco’s voice sounded sympathetic, Pansy tensed at the sound, wishing her could speak to her without feeling sympathy, “Look at all you’ve done and nobody knows it, I mean, you joined-”

“I wanted to protect myself, nothing more. And could we maybe not talk about that?” Pansy snapped back, wishing she had never broached the subject.

“Nope. Don’t get all closed off and snappy with me, I don’t pity you for Merlin’s sake,” Draco said, all sympathy fading from his voice, replaced by his usual indifference. “Honestly, Pans, think about it. That whole time you were in the Inquisitorial Squad did you ever actually get anyone caught?”

“Of course I did,” Pansy snorted at the confused frown that fell onto Draco’s face, “I’m not a fucking idiot, if I hadn’t I would’ve been marked as incompetent and removed from the job. I didn’t get anyone _important_ caught.”

Draco smiled smugly, Pansy had just proved his point, “You knew about the DA as well and you didn’t rat them out, well obviously not if you were-”

“Draco. We are not talking about that.” Pansy’s tone was heaped with finality.

“Fine. Okay. But do you see my point? You don’t deserve this shit.” Draco’s voice softened as he placed a hand on Pansy’s knee. Pansy couldn’t even find it within herself to hate the tenderness in his tone or to feel weak by the way he was comforting her, the gesture, however small, was the one thing Pansy had needed more than anything.

“Maybe I don’t, but neither do you,” She whispered, still revelling in the shreds of affection from Draco. Nobody had been willing to get within a meter radius of her since he had arrived at Hogwarts, let alone touch her, let alone care how she felt. Pansy felt her eyes fill with tears, all of the emotions she had tried so hard to suppress desperately trying to be felt, she swallowed the growing lump in her throat, resting her head on Draco’s shoulder and willing herself not to cry.

“If you cry right now, you can Obliviate me afterwards,” Draco said, only half joking.

Pansy let out a half laugh half sob as the tears began to fall from her face. In the month since she had been at Hogwarts, Pansy hadn’t shed a single tear. Even when Terry Boot and his gang cornered her, intending to make her cry and be weak, she wouldn’t do it. The boys had used every curse they knew before resorting to fighting like muggles but still couldn’t make Pansy make so much as a sound of acknowledgement of her treatment. Pansy was not a crier, her outward expressions of emotion occurred once every couple of months, if that. But sat in an abandoned classroom with Draco Malfoy, Pansy allowed herself to cry. Every recollection of every whisper and stare and catcall and name and attack she had experienced since arriving fell out of her as tears. Every battle she had witnessed, every death and torture and person maimed beyond recognition flooded out of her, she hadn’t cried since long before the final battle. Her body wracked with sobs, shaking her to her core, crying until she couldn’t cry any more.

She glanced up at Draco, noticing that he, like her, was forcing out sobs almost painful in their intensity. She looked away, knowing Draco wouldn’t want to be stared at and knowing he hadn’t watched her as she cried. The pair sat, alone but together, spilling out every emotion they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel since the war. Their empty classroom grew darker still as time wore on, thin slivers of orange sunlight peaked through the boarded up window as the sun began to set. Eventually their tears dried, their vulnerable expressions reverted back to the cool indifference they prided themselves on. These faces did not feel, they observed and watched and suppressed in anticipation of another day where they could sit in an abandoned classroom and be vulnerable.

“It’s getting late.” Pansy said, her voice not having fully recovered. Draco nodded wordlessly and the pair made their way up to their separate rooms, walking silently side by side, not letting the other walk alone. Pansy sighed as they departed in the common room, hoping that Granger would be in the library or visiting her friends’ rooms, desperate for a bit of isolation.

 

* * *

 

 

The room immediately fell quiet as soon as Pansy walked in. She blinked, affronted with the sight of the Golden Trio lounging around on the floor, surrounded by books and parchment after what she was sure could have been an attempt at group study. Even Hermione, with her oft unwavering focus wasn’t working, instead being caught telling an anecdote with a level of enthusiasm Pansy had never seen her apply to anything other than books.

Ron and Hermione were on the bed, with Hermione resting her head on the opposite side to Ron, she was frozen mid-gesture, leaving her arms in a strange and uncomfortable looking position. Weasley looked barely focused on what Hermione was saying, staring off into the space next to the door, making himself the first to notice as Pansy walked in, immediately schooling his expression into one of disgust. Harry was sat on a beanbag that Pansy was almost certain neither girl had been in possession of, moreso because it was bright red and has a strange pattern on it, similar to a very warped version of the Gryffindor tie. The three looked comfortable in the room, taking up plenty of space on Hermione’s side but not encroaching onto Pansy’s territory, which she appreciated greatly.

The two sides of the room were wildly different. Hermione’s a strange mixture of neat and messy, her bed and night stand were immaculate and uncluttered and the corners of the duvet were tucked in perfectly. The desk contrasted this neatness, it was covered in papers and quills and muggle pens, pieces of parchment were strewn around the floor, lazily thrown in the direction of the waste paper basket next to the desk, but not quite making it in. The walls were bare, despite Hermione having the opportunity to cover them with whatever she chose. There were no posters covering the wall, the only thing that had been put up was a single photo of a young Hermione stood next to a man and a woman, who Pansy assumed to be her parents. Pansy hadn’t seen the photo up close as it’s position above Hermione’s headboard made it awkward to up and approach, but even from afar she could see the resemblance Hermione held to the two adults in the photo. The woman had hair just like Hermione’s, frizzy and curly and all over the place, but unlike Hermione’s long hair it was cut short, resting just above her shoulders. The man was slightly shorter than the woman, who seemed quite short by the photo, it was clear where Hermione got her height from. All Pansy could see of the man was that he wore a pair of heavy framed glasses and had a ridiculously white smile. Pansy had been dying to ask about the photo since she had lain eyes on it, but was almost certain it would be a touchy subject that she probably shouldn’t approach.

Pansy’s side of the room was the very opposite of Hermione’s. While Hermione’s side was both minimal and cluttered, Pansy’s was adorned with all of her favourite things. The posts surrounding her bed were littered with fairy lights, she had become enamoured with the things ever since she had discovered them on a street in muggle London. The lights meant that Pansy’s half of the room was never dark, the lights filled the room with warmth, they made Pansy feel safe, even in the close and uncomfortable habitat she was staying in; she and Hermione did not necessarily get along. Posters and photographs covered the wall above her bed like a mosaic of all of her favourite memories. The same people featured in every photo, Blaise, Draco, Daphne and Theo - they had all grown up together, deemed socially acceptable friends for the children to make. Pansy’s best memories were with them, warranting the wall covered in memorabilia. Unlike Hermione’s, Pansy’s night stand was covered in muggle magazines and photo books, highlighting the best of muggle fashion and makeup. Hermione had asked her about the magazines when they first moved in, confused as to why Pureblood Pansy would be interested in them. Pansy replied telling her that “maybe she’s not as closed minded as she looked” hoping it would influence Hermione to so much as consider that as a possibility, but instead, Hermione went off on a tangent about objectifying women in magazines and popular culture. Pansy still found herself wondering if Hermione ever thought that what she had said was the truth.

Hermione threw Pansy an apologetic smile in welcome while Harry nodded to her as she made her way into the room. Pansy was barely able to hold back a snort at the lack of greeting from Weasley, who’s face had morphed from a smile into a glower as soon as he set eyes on Pansy. She threw her bag down onto her bed, grabbing a hairbrush and a towel before retreating to the bathroom, Pansy had no real desire to do much of anything in the bathroom, much preferring to lie down on her bed and listen to some music, maybe read one of the muggle novels she had borrowed from the bookshelves in the common room. But Pansy knew where she wasn’t welcome, she wasn’t willing to sit in a room where Weasley was shooting her glares every thirty seconds, his hatred of her mirroring that of everyone else the school. Pansy stood in front of the mirror, rubbing at the faded tear tracks on her face and pushing her fringe to the side to cast a quick healing charm on the bruise growing on her forehead; she sighed, sitting down on the closed toilet seat and planning on waiting for Potter and Weasley to leave.

“I just don’t get why we all got roomed with _Slytherins,_ ” She heard Weasley complain from through the door.

“It’s not that bad, I mean at least Theo is quiet.” Hermione said back, at least having the courtesy to lower her voice in hopes of Pansy not hearing her, unlike Weasley, who had actually begun to speak louder, like he wanted Pansy to hear his whining.

Pansy sighed, fiddling with the ends of her hair. Hogwarts would never be a welcome place for her any more, not while people like Ron Weasley were in it. She knew that a lot of it was her own fault, her actions in the war had made her easy to hate, she was, after all, the villain for a long time. But any hopes she had had of Hogwarts being a reprise from all of the events of the war were dashed before she had even arrived by the looks she received on the train. Pansy sat in her spot on the toilet seat for what felt like hours, recounting each and every memory she could conjure from her time at Hogwarts, good or bad; she was stuck in an endless loop of nostalgia, missing the home that Slytherin had become for her. While Pansy was as much Slytherin as the new first years, she wasn’t able to stay in the far too cold dungeons in the large, warm, heavily blanketed beds she had grown accustomed to. A small part of her resented herself for wishing she were back in Slytherin, the house was renowned for its racism and prejudice which was, admittedly, far more rife than in other houses. Really, she should have been thankful to escape the house, she should have been grateful that she was roomed with Hermione Granger - what better opportunity to proves one’s innocence than by befriending one third of the Golden Trio. But Pansy wasn’t grateful, she would take the cold Slytherin dungeons over the crippling loneliness she felt. Because Slytherin was a family to her, the girls dorm was warm and welcoming, home to bedtime stories and late night conversations, filled with the people Pansy had grown to love. Pansy didn’t get any such comfort sharing a room with Hermione Granger. The two girls were too starkly different, and it seemed Hermione had less interest in getting to know Pansy than Pansy did in being at the school altogether. Pansy frowned, running her hands through her hair and sighing deeply, wishing she were anywhere else.

“You can come out now,” Hermione’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, sounding far closer to the door than it did when she was in conversation. Pansy frowned, slightly embarrassed that Hermione had picked up on her hiding. She wasn’t afraid and she didn’t want Hermione thinking that. Pansy rose from her seat, opening the door and walking back into the room with as much purpose as she could muster, hoping that her cheeks didn’t mirror her embarrassment.

“You know you really didn’t have to hide out in there,” Hermione said, watching Pansy re-enter the room.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, hoping her indifference would mask the embarrassment she felt; Hermione knew that she was hiding, meaning Hermione knew that she was vulnerable. Vulnerable was the one thing Pansy could not be seen to be. She was strong, as all Parkinson women were. She raised her head slightly, straightening her posture and gathering her composure as she had so often been taught to do.

“I was just being courteous,” She said, noticing how her voice changed as she spoke, every syllable enunciated perfectly, mirroring the way she was taught to speak in elocution classes as a child.

“And I appreciate it. But this is as much your room as it is mine,” Hermione shot a smile her way while she tied her hair up into a ponytail. The girl had changed while Pansy was in the bathroom, abandoning her school robes for a large t shirt and a pair of shorts, which was, it seemed, Hermione’s ideal sleepwear.

“I’m aware, but I’d rather not be glared at by your boyfriend every second that I’m in it,” Pansy returned Hermione’s smile with far less warmth, moving to sit on her own bed.

“It’s nothing personal, don’t worry about him too much.”

“Oh, I know it’s nothing personal.” Pansy said, smiling a humourless smile, “After all, it’s open season on the Slytherin.”


	5. Capital C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, this update is so late!! So much for posting once a week, college and work ate me for a while there.  
> But here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it, it's more of a deep chapter, but hopefully still good.  
> <3

“Ah, fuck!” Harry groaned rolling out of bed in a flurry of blankets, his hand grabbing out for his glasses. The room was empty, cold in the icy October air. He instinctively made his bed, tucking in each corner perfectly and cursing himself for oversleeping; his eyes darted over to Draco’s side of the room, taking in the boys unkempt and messy bed. Harry had never expected Draco to be nearly as messy as he was, but realised that the boy simply didn't know how to clean.

He shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbing his bag and throwing his tie around his neck before hurtling down the stairs towards the common room.

“Slept in did you Potty?” Harry’s head swung round and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Malfoy, lingering in the common room and smirking far too amusedly at Harry. Harry scowled, taking in the pointy blondes too-perfect uniform, acutely aware of how messy and rumpled he looked by comparison

“Could say the same to you, Malfoy. What're you loitering down here for? Classes start in…” Harry cast a quick _tempus_ , not taking his eyes off of Malfoy “three minutes. Shit.”

Malfoy smirked, watching as Harry hurriedly tucked his shirt in, making his way towards the door of the common room, but still not moving.

“Aren’t you coming?” Harry asked, turning back to Malfoy, “You’re gonna be late.”

“I appreciate the offer, Potty,” Harry frowned at the nickname, “But my ride isn’t here yet.” Malfoy shot him a far too charming smile, confusing Harry further.

“Your ride? What the fu-” Harry was interrupted by Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass floating down the stairs to the girls dorm with far less urgency than Harry felt they should.

Greengrass and Parkinson were freakishly immaculate, much like Malfoy and all the other Slytherins that had returned for an eighth year. He had yet to see any of them show any emotion beyond mild amusement at best and general apathy at worst. It was bizarre, unsettling. Something about all the Slytherins was so plain and unspectacular it made them impossible to form any sort of opinion on, they were all almost so perfect it was just boring. Of course, Harry thought, that didn't stop them from being snarky gits.

“Bloody hell Potter, swearing so early in the morning?” Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow and tugging Malfoy to the door.

“And what are you doing standing around for? You’re going to be late!” Daphne laughed, taking Malfoy’s other arm and guiding the boy out of the common room door. “Where’s Zabini? We’re supposed to go in fours…” Harry frowned at their rapidly retreating figures as he heard less and less of their conversation.

“What the fuck…?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re late, Mr Potter,” Harry swore under his breath as every eye in the classroom turned to him, he muttered an apology to Professor McGonagall before taking his seat next to Ron and Hermione, both of whom looked at him, curious as to why he was late. He smiled miserably, waving his hand over his messier than usual  hair and rumpled shirt, both of which acted as clear evidence that he had overslept.

As his transfigurations lesson went on, Harry found his mind wandering back to Malfoy, Parkinson and Greengrass’ strange entrance to the common room earlier that morning. _“We’re supposed to go in fours…”_ Greengrass had said; that statement alone threw Harry’s understanding of their conversation way out of balance. Was this some kind of new school rule? Or because they were Slytherins? Merlin knew the pointy git was annoying, but he hadn’t done anything since the end of the war, there’d be no need for extra precautions. As for Greengrass and Parkinson, neither of the girls has been death eaters, nor had Zabini, who the girls had been looking for.

Harry sighed, pushing the thoughts out of his mind and turning back to his classwork; he realised he hadn’t listened to a word McGonagall had said and leant over to copy the last fifteen minutes of notes off of Hermione’s notebook. Harry couldn’t help but smile at Hermione’s insistent use of muggle stationary, the habit had rubbed off on him, and Harry was definitely preferring the use of ballpoint pens over quills. The lesson ran on for what felt like ages, by the time McGonagall dismissed them, Harry was antsy and desperate to talk to Hermione. What had Greengrass meant? What was Malfoy and his friends up to?

“Harry, why’d you look so miserable all lesson?” Ron asked as soon as the lesson ended, Harry shot a small smile at Ron, appreciating how observant his friend always was.

“I think Malfoy is-”

“Up to something,” Ron and Hermione finished for him, rolling their eyes.

“No but really!” Harry shoved the last sheet of parchment in his pocket and following his friends out of the classroom, “He was waiting for Parkinson this morning and then they were talking about walking in fours and-”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, looking at Harry with something akin to sympathy and only getting a scowl in response.

“At first I thought they were dating, but they're nothing like you guys! You see them all the time too, you're a couple, surely they don't seem… coupley?” Hermione and Ron shared a brief glance before stopping in their tracks and turning to Harry.

“Mate, we aren't dating anymore…” Ron said, wincing slightly.

“What?! Why? Since when?” Harry's brain felt near to exploding, Ron and Hermione were going to get married, they were perfect for each other. He simply couldn't imagine them being anything but a couple.

“Since last week, neither of us are really okay since the war. We rushed into it too quickly, it just…” Hermione trailed off, leaving Harry absolutely stunned. “But frankly, Parkinson and Malfoy _could_ be dating, I don't think they're up to anything this time, Harry.”

“Nah, Malfoy is definitely bent.” Ron added as an afterthought, and the three made their way through the corridor again, headed to the Great Hall.

Harry sighed, his brain shuffling through all of the new information dumped on him. Ron and Hermione had broken up and somehow he hadn't noticed; he frowned, he couldn't deny he had been distracted since the end of the war, but to go so far as to not notice his friends breaking up? Harry was ashamed. He supposed it made sense though, Ron and Hermione didn't talk as much as they used to before the war, to each other or anyone; hindsight, as always, proved everything to be far clearer. Hermione would, some mornings, come down to breakfast late with tear tracks on her face, shrugging Harry and Ron off when they would try to find out what was wrong; he supposed she had been crying in the mornings, and was only able to cover it up some days. Harry himself hadn't done much crying at all, he hadn't felt much of anything since the war. Sure, he could laugh and smile along with his friends, but he hadn't felt the kind of joy he was so used to feeling for a long time. Since Sirius’ death, he supposed - after that point, it had all gone down hill. Ron would fluctuate between anger and normality, his temper was far shorter than it used to be, Ron was never a violent person, but even Harry would notice the scabs forming on his knuckles after a particularly stressful day - he had caught Ron punching walls more than once. A distance had grown between the three, not irreparable, they could still laugh and joke, there was still some hot to be shared, but the distance was still there; none of them were in the position to offer any kind of comfort to the others, they couldn't even be a comfort to themselves. Harry supposed that, with Ron's anger and Hermione’s sensitivity, it was no wonder the pair broke up, but he couldn't help willing them to fix it and get back together.

Malfoy. Malfoy as always playing the capital c Conundrum in Harry's life. He turned over every feasible possibility in his head as the trio sat down to eat in the great hall. Surely Malfoy was up to something, every fibre of his being knew that something was wrong with the way Malfoy and his friends behaved. ‘We're supposed to go in fours…’ the line echoed in his head, why were the Slytherins walking in groups of four? Were they plotting something? Scoping out the school to let more death eaters in? No, Harry dismissed the notion immediately, Malfoy was a shit death eater, and if the Slytherins were plotting anything, he would make himself ring leader. Harry frowned, picking at the food on his plate; if not death eaters, then what?

“Harry.” His musings were interrupted by Ron's too sharp voice, “Eat.” Harry smiled, looking past the irritation in Ron's tone and divulging to finish the food on his plate. Ron was worried about him, Harry knew he had lost a lot of weight.

He put thoughts of Malfoy and his scheming aside, deciding he would think on them when he had more time, instead choosing to address the third and final issue in his head. Malfoy was bent. Huh. Harry wasn't as surprised as he thought he ought to be; Malfoy was too well dressed, well groomed and well, _Malfoy_ to be anything but completely queer. It was almost as if the idea made too much sense for Harry's brain to handle, so he decided to move his focus away from Malfoy altogether, instead giving his attention to the sweet potato fries in front of him.

 

*“Non, non, c'est pas un problème ! Mais...”

Harry groaned, abandoning all intention of putting Malfoy out of his head as the boy walked past, speaking and laughing in rapid-fire French with Pansy Parkinson. It was strange, the pair only behaved any sort of normal when they couldn't be understood by anyone, for the first time since returning to Hogwarts, Harry saw a genuine smile on Malfoy’s face. Something about it was… unsettling.

**“Merde, Draco, t’es trés stupide ! C'est simplement, première…” Parkinson's voice drifted off as the two moved towards the Slytherin table and out of earshot. Harry watched their backs, finding their easy laughs and almost casual body language strange in comparison to the stiff countenances that had been adopted by every single Slytherin and a good few purebloods since they returned.

 

“Fucking snakes, deserve to be in Azkaban, the lot of ‘em.” Harry frowned, his eyes scanning around the hall in an attempt to find the source of the voice. He knew hostility towards the Slytherins had increased, particularly with people like Malfoy and Parkinson being allowed to return to school, but had never once heard anyone outwardly say a bad word about them. It was strange. Harry couldn't wrap his head around how much Hogwarts had changed following the war, all of the closeness and camaraderie that had been so apparent in his younger years had evaporated. Even within houses there was conflict, moreso than ever before; it was like, after the war, nobody could be sure who they could trust, so instead decided to trust nobody at all. Harry didn't like it. Not one bit.

 

* * *

 

 

“That's a stupid question, try again,” Pansy grinned at Blaise’s exasperation as he pitched her a fourth question in their game of truth or drink.

She, Draco, Daphne, Theo and Blaise were sat in a small circle on the floor of Theo’s room, passing a bottle of Ogdens firewhiskey around between them. Blaise was already hiccupping the stuff up and Daphne had long since fallen asleep, much to the other's chagrin.

“Would you rather date Granger or Malfoy?” Blaise giggled at the blatant look of disgust on both of his friends’ faces.

“Malfoy, easy.” Pansy answered, wiping the cringe off her face, replacing it with a smile as both boys looked at her, shocked. “Malfoy can buy me things, what can Granger do really?”

“Uhh… outsmart us all?”

“Rule the world?”

Pansy snorted at both boys’ quick response, turning to Theo, who was silently pouring himself another drink, somehow seeming the most sober of them all, despite having drank the most. “What d’you think, Theo? Should I make Malfoy or Granger my lover?”

“Granger.” He replied, not even batting an eye, “She’s powerful, and plus she’s basically your Potter, you’re obsessed or whatever.”

“Am I really?” Pansy raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I mean you were a right bitch to her and then you went and joined-”

“Point got, Theo.”

“I mean, that wasn’t for nothing, was it?” Theo smirked at the redness creeping on Pansy’s cheeks.

“Shut up and pour yourself another drink, Nott.” Draco cut in, coming straight to Pansy’s defence.

“It’s okay,” Theo said, taking Draco’s advice and taking a long gulp of his drink, “I know she doesn’t _actually_ like Granger, who cares?”

Pansy sighed, taking the bottle of firewhiskey away from Theo and ignoring his drunken ravings. Theo, despite being able to pass as a perfectly sober person, when drunk, he said all the things he never said when sober; there was a lot Theo never felt he could say, he hadn’t been raised to. The Nott family were related by blood and nothing more; Theo lived a life completely independently of his parents, who in turn lived independently of each other, both choosing instead to devote their time to relationships on the side that had, on the whole, been far more successful than their marriage. But that wasn’t saying much.

 

The four started as the door creaked open, Draco, Pansy, Theo and Blaise immediately straightened their posture, hiding the once obvious drunkenness of their demeanors. Granger stuck her head around the door, muttering apologies as she crossed the room, heading to the bathroom and leaving the four alone again. Blaise hiccuped, breaking the silence and drawing a soft snort out of Theo. The four relaxed once again, glancing at Daphne’s sleeping form.

 

“Why do we care what _Granger_ thinks of us? I was comfortable sitting.” Blaise pouted, taking a sip of firewhiskey.

 

“We care what everyone thinks of us, we have to, remember?” Theo responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"No, no, it's not a problem! But..."  
> **"Shit, Draco, you're so stupid! It's simple, first..."  
> (My French is not amazing, please correct me if anything is incorrect)


	6. Ginger

**CHAPTER SIX:**

Hermione sighed, wrestling her hair into a ponytail and leaving the intoxicated Slytherins in the room behind her. The light in the bathroom was soft, slightly too soft for her to see comfortably; she threw herself down onto the closed toilet seat and cast a silent, wandless _lumos._ She felt obligated to leave the Slytherins to their fun in the room, just as Pansy had done for her.

NEWTS were exhausting all of Hermione’s time and energy, but, she supposed, that's what comes with choosing to take every NEWT available. She had had almost no time to spend with Harry and Ron beyond library visits; Hermione couldn't contain her gratitude for the lack of awkwardness between herself and Ron when the trio were able to spend time together.

                 Her breakup with Ron was, thankfully, not messy at all. When Hermione had approached him, wracked with nerves and going over the speech she had been planning for a week, he had simply shot her a sad smile and said “I don't think I can keep doing this.”

“I… yeah, me too.” Hermione had replied, marking the painless end of their relationship, but thankfully not their friendship.

Neither Ron nor Hermione were able to be what the other needed in a relationship; they both needed comfort, someone to be strong so they didn't have to. Ron couldn't be that for Hermione, he was still mourning the death of Fred as well as the trauma from the war. Hermione knew she couldn't be that for Ron either, the war had all but broken her, she was lost to her parents, scarred by the torture from Bellatrix and the horrifying reality that she had killed people in the battle - she could barely manage to be strong for herself, never less be strong for Ron too.

She and Ron were, undoubtedly, better as friends. They could mourn together without expectations.

* * *

Hermione’s train of thought was interrupted by a squeal coming from the room; she knew the Slytherins had left already, so the sound had to have come from Pansy. She frowned, trying to imagine what could possible lead Parkinson to make such a sound before lifting herself off the toilet seat and heading into the room.

“Granger!” Parkinson’s voice was almost dripping with alcohol as Hermione walked into the room, trying to find the source of the voice. “You have a cat?! Why did you never tell me!” She slurred. Parkinson sounded more excited than Hermione had ever heard her to be; actually, Hermione thought, she sounded more _anything_ than she had ever heard her. That was the most emotion Hermione had ever heard Parkinson express, at least when she wasn't mocking someone, usually Hermione.

Crookshanks’ purrs echoed through the half-closed curtains of Hermione’s bed; she couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face at the sound and the mental image of Parkinson somehow getting affection out of the temperamental Crookshanks. She pulled open the curtain and froze.

“Parkinson, you-”

Pansy was draped over Hermione’s bed, with Crookshanks nuzzled against her neck, practically vibrating with joy. Her face was broken out in an ear splitting grin, an expression Hermione had never seen on the girl; but stranger than this was the hair. Parkinson’s hair was Crookshanks orange, streaked with flecks of white and grey, matching the cat’s fur perfectly.

“Where has this beauty been all my life? I love him.” Pansy tore her eyes away from Crookshanks, the smile falling off her face as she took in the shock on Hermione’s face. “Is there something on my face?” She frowned, her expressions turning to a slightly drunk and blurry version of her usual scowl

“Your _hair,”_ Was all that Hermione could force out before all colour drained from Parkinson’s face and hair, turning her skin to a far too pale white and her hair its usual inky black. The orange almost dripped out of her hair, fading from root to tip. Hermione gasped as the colour faded away like liquid, unable to muster the words to express her surprise, instead staring at Parkinson, mouth agape.

“Close your mouth.” Pansy said, her face still too pale and her eyes filled with fear. Hermione’s jaw snapped shut and the silence between the two girls was deafening.

“How did you do that?” Hermione finally forced out, watching as Parkinson’s facial expression battled between a wince and an eye roll, finally resorting to the latter.

“...Cosmetics charm,” the girl said, though it ended up sounding like more of a question than a surefire answer.

“There are no cosmetic charms that do… _that,”_

“I'm aware, Granger. Bloody hell, for the brightest witch of our age you really are dim.” Parkinson’s words were still slightly slurred by the alcohol, but their acute pointiness remained, making Hermione feel a bit stupid.

“So you're a…” Hermione started, watching Parkinson’s reaction, “You're a metamorphmagus?”

“She's in for a winner!” Parkinson’s hands flew in the air and her voice practically dripping with sarcasm, it's effect weakened by both her drunkenness and the frightened warble of her voice.

Hermione frowned, her brain attempting to wrap itself around the idea. Pansy Parkinson as a metamorphmagus ? She supposed it made sense, the girl would often come down to the great hall with entirely new haircuts, putting it down to Daphne Greengrass’ hairdressing skills which, considering the other girls ever perfect hair, was not so wild a concept. But then why would Pansy hide it? Metamorphmagus’ were said to be extremely powerful witches, as a pureblood and a show-off, wouldn't that be the kind of thing Parkinson would want to brag about? Hermione’s brain was beginning to ache with the effort of trying to decode Parkinson’s strange behaviour, and the girl was looking more and more anxious as she watched Hermione try to figure her out.

“Why hide it?” Hermione asked, likely far too loud for the now silent space. Parkinson frowned, looking at Hermione like she was a puzzle that had to be solved.

“This doesn't make us friends, Granger.”

“I never said it did, I just want to know.”

“I'm not some puzzle for you to figure out.”

“It's just a question Parkinson.”

The two girls stared each other down, neither willing to budge their resolves. Parkinson scowled, looking almost childish with the pout on her face; the expression was almost funny, she looked exactly like the spoiled pureblood Hermione had known her to be in their years at Hogwarts. In fact, she looked more like an eleven year old than she did as a first year. Hermione snorted at the thought, breaking the tension in the room and causing Parkinson to scowl even deeper.

“You look like a first year,” Hermione laughed, slumping down on the bed across from Parkinson, wrinkling her nose at the scent of alcohol that had infiltrated her sleeping space. Crookshanks got up from where he was laid on Parkinson’s lap and padded over to Hermione, purring once again.

“This doesn't make us _friends,_ Granger.”

“So you've said.” Hermione smiled down at the cat on her lap, barely acknowledging Parkinson’s pout. The room fell silent again except for Crookshanks’ purrs; Hermione could feel Parkinson glaring at her, but refused to acknowledge the girl, behaving as her parents used to when Hermione would have tantrums as a toddler.

Parkinson sighed, breaking the silence once again. “It's not acceptable.” She said, earning an inquisitive eyebrow raise from Hermione. “It's powerful magic, but it's not… proper. It's a party trick, what use is it if I can change my face, or my hair? It's stupid.”

Hermione frowned, both at the first genuine show of vulnerability shown by Parkinson and the things she said. “Is that what you think?” She asked, directing her attention at the uncomfortable little squirm Parkinson did under her close scrutiny.

“Does it matter what I think?” She snorted, as if she had said something funny, Hermione didn't see the joke.

“ _I_ think it matters,” She said, acutely aware of the dismissive eye roll she got in response. “No, really, I-”

“Leave it would you, Granger? This isn't S.P.E.W, I'm not some house elf who needs to be liberated, it doesn't matter.”

Hermione frowned, “It matters.” She ignored Parkinson’s imminent disagreement and continued, “How d’you know about S.P.E.W anyways?”

Parkinson rolled her eyes again, “You talked about it all the time, especially at-” She stopped, looking as if she caught herself doing something she shouldn't. Hermione frowned, attempting to coax Parkinson to finish her sentence to no avail.

“Especially at what?” Hermione asked.

Parkinson sighed, lifting herself off the bed, “Granger, we aren't friends.” Hermione groaned internally at the backtrack they had made, the two were almost, _almost_ on the level of genuine conversation. “And to be frank, I'm still _slightly_ too drunk for this conversation.”

Hermione watched as Parkinson retreated to her bed, dropping herself down on it with far less grace than Hermione had ever seen the girl show. She lay, snuggling herself up in blankets, still in her skirt, shirt and tie. The curtains to her bed snapped shut, officially marking the end of their conversation and drawing a long suffering sigh out of Hermione.

“Goodnight, Pansy.” Hermione called to the closed curtain.

“ _We aren't friends, Granger.”_

* * *

 

Pansy’s hands hadn't stopped shaking, even after she closed her curtains, pulling her away from Granger’s field of vision. She had told her too much. She silently cursed herself for letting her control slip - her lack of control of her magic was one of the main reasons Pansy avoided drinking whenever possible; alcohol had, on that day, become a form of catharsis for her and her friends, none of whom were safe from the attacks in Hogwarts.

Metamorphmagi were common in the Parkinson family, Pansy was by no means the first, nor would she be the last. Such magic was, by her mother's standards, unbefitting for a pureblood lady; her mother felt that there was nothing a metamorphmagi could do that simple cosmetic charms couldn't, making Pansy’s magic useless. It was an embarrassing thing, a scour on the Parkinson name, not the brand of. pueblo odd superiority Granger had assumed it was. Pansy had learned to hide it well, keeping her typically Parkinson features to deflect suspicion and learning not to let her emotions influence her appearance but, on the one night it mattered that she kept her guard up, she lowered it, allowing Granger to see a side of her nobody but her closest friends knew.

‘ _We aren't friends, Granger’_ It was more of a plea than an outright denial of friendship. Hermione Granger was not, by any means, going to become Pansy’s confidant, the two were not going to open up to each other, become besties because of their inner turmoil after the war. Pansy couldn't bear to be left open like that, vulnerable, particularly to someone like Granger, who had so much influence she could get anyone to believe anything about Pansy, no questions asked. _She wouldn't do that,_ Pansy thought, sighing deeply and rolling over in bed, _she's too… noble. If she wanted me to open up, it'd be so she could examine me or something._ Pansy winced, that thought was even stranger.

“Goodnight, Pansy.” Pansy started as Granger’s voice cut through her train of thought. Her mind scrambled for responses, she even considered calling Granger _Hermione_ , but the girls were hardly on a first name basis. Just because she knew one of Pansy’s most well-kept secret didn’t mean they were besties.

“We aren’t friends, Granger,” Pansy repeated again, hoping that her point would get across, that Granger discovering her as a metamorphmagus didn’t mean that some new friendship would blossom between the two. A month ago, Pansy would’ve jumped at the chance, befriending Hermione Granger would’ve been a tactical move, something that could’ve protected her from the attacks, proved her to be something more than the evil, cold hearted Slytherin everyone believed she was. But Pansy’s optimism only went so far, she knew that any relationship with Granger beyond basic politeness would reflect negatively on her, it would put her in danger of more attacks. What’s more, Pansy knew that there was nothing she could do to prove to anyone she was more than an evil, cold hearted Slytherin.

More than anything, Pansy couldn’t even prove it to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that happened... let me know what you think in the comments, I hope you enjoyed <3


	7. Irritant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Life has taken one hell of a hit out of me but I’m back and working on this fic, my posts may be irregular because i’ve got finals in a few months but here’s an update!  
> TW for lots of swearing, Harry is a grumpy man  
> Enjoy! <3

“Malfoy would you clean  _ something?  _ Your side of the room stinks!”

Harry groaned as Draco sighed, turning his chair away from his desk and shooting Harry a withering stare. Harry could feel himself getting more and more frustrated by the boys’ nonchalant attitude towards the mess.

“No. Don’t give me that look, would you look around at your fucking space? How do you tolerate it? It’s disgusting!”

Malfoy’s side of the room had been gradually growing messier and messier since the boys had started at Hogwarts. Harry was in shock, perfect neat Malfoy couldn’t keep a small section of a room clean; instead, the boy did quite the opposite, allowing clothes to pile up on the floor and bed, piling papers on the desk and the scattered on the floor around the bin. Malfoy’s unusually large shoe collection peppered the floor and Harry didn’t know how the boy ever managed to find a matching pair. 

“Since when are you such a neat freak, Potty?” Malfoy smirked, raising a single unimpressed eyebrow.

Harry scowled, turning away from Malfoy and back towards the spread of parchment on his own respective desk. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes boring into the back of his head and it took all of his willpower not to turn back and tell the pointy boy  _ exactly  _ what he thought about him. Nothing good. Absolutely nothing. Definitely not about the way the boys’ too silver eyes would bore into his at the most inconvenient times, making it impossible for him to focus on anything. Or the way he would get too close whenever it came to explaining complicated potions problems, or when they played chess, had a conversation or… did anything. It was like he had no sense of personal space at all. It was infuriating.

 

Malfoy and Harry had been getting closer and closer, it was inevitable really, being roommates made it near impossible for the two not to have learned far too much about each other. Malfoy slept until 4pm if given the chance but would always be punctual about his bedtimes, 10:30 on the dot. He had nightmares, much like Harry’s; but unlike Harry’s, his were not the thrashing and screaming kind, instead, Malfoy would wake up and sit with the light on for hours until he fell back  asleep. The pair had learned each other’s idiosyncrasies to a T and it turned out the boys were almost compatible to share a living space.

Almost. Except for Malfoy and his bloody mess.

Harry couldn’t keep a messy space. Years of living with the Dursleys had made it near impossible for him to leave so much as a wrinkle in his bedsheets or a sock on the floor. Malfoy’s messy space had caused Harry so much anxiety, he was almost expecting Vernon Dursley to burst into the room and point out the mess. Of course he didn’t tell Malfoy this. How could he?  _ Hey, can you clean up your mess it reminds me of my evil muggle uncle?  _ He would sound insane. However ‘compatible’ they may have been, that was territory Harry was willing to leave unentered. So instead they fought about it, daily (sometimes hourly) screaming matches that had started as physical fights and changed into something much quieter, something strangely personal between the two and, for Harry, had become more of an opportunity for him to stare at Malfoy’s face up close. Not that it was a rare opportunity. Malfoy seemed committed to invading Harry’s personal space as often as possible. Without exceptions.

 

“Why can I practically  _ hear _ you thinking?” Harry was drawn away from his work once again by Malfoy’s blonde drawling voice.

“Because I’m working maybe?” Harry snapped, turning his focus back to his work and trying to ignore Malfoy.

“No… I don’t think that’s it,” Harry started, realising Malfoy was suddenly too close, “What’s on your mind Potty?”

“Don’t call me that.” Harry tried to ignore Malfoy leaning against his desk, looking at Harry searchingly. He could feel his cheeks flushing but was determined to ignore Malfoy’s presence and the heat radiating from his skin, forcing himself to focus his energy on the parchment and textbook in front of him.

 

_ The goblin wars of 1653 began with disputes between Golchock the Grizzly and -  _ Harry could feel Malfoy’s hand flicking against the ends of his hair. 

“Stop that.”  _ The goblin wars of 1653 began with disputes between - _

“Or what?” Harry could almost hear Malfoy’s stupid, challenging eyebrow raise in his tone of voice. 

_ The goblin wars of 1653 -  _

“Fuck it.” Harry stood up from where he was sat, grabbing Malfoy’s forearm and holding the boy against the wall, pressing his lips against his and revelling in the gasp that escaped from Malfoy’s lips as they made contact.

Malfoy’s lips were less smooth than Harry expected, they were chapped and bitten, thin against Harry’s own but pillowy soft. Malfoy didn’t hesitate to reciprocate Harry’s affections, trying to fight him for dominance and working a hand into Harry’s hair. Harry groaned against the kiss, pushing Malfoy into the wall and pressing himself against the other boy, removing any space between the two. 

He could feel Malfoy smiling against his lips and couldn’t help the smug feeling that flitted around his stomach, quickly being replaced by a gasp of arousal as Malfoy’s other hand moved down towards his arse. Harry stopped, pulling away from the kiss and revelling in the whimper that fell out of Malfoy’s lips at the loss of contact.

“Are you quite proud of yourself?” Harry raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, whose face was an image of pure satisfaction and smugness at Harry’s lapse of self control.

“Yes, quite.” the other boy said, moving towards Harry again but faltering when Harry moved away. 

“Good.” Harry said, gathering up his abandoned parchment and textbook, “because I  _ really  _ need to finish this.” 

Harry smirked at Malfoy’s groan, heading towards the door and hoping for a Malfoy free library, for once going with his better judgement rather than listening to his gut, which  _ really  _ wanted to stay in the room with Malfoy. 

 

More than anything, he needed to talk to Hermione. 

 

* * *

“Parkinson-“

“No.”

Hermione sighed, dropping her bag by the side of her bed, her eyes constantly moving back towards the now-closed curtains of Pansy Parkinson’s bed. Parkinson was impossible to talk to, she was childish and afraid and a small part of Hermione couldn’t help but empathise with her. Hermione has, after all, discovered what she assumed to be Pansy’s biggest secret; but that didn’t mean Parkinson had to be so difficult because of it.

It was almost as if she was making every effort to make Hermione’s life difficult; she had reverted back to her ways of blasting out loud muggle punk rock at obscenely early hours of the morning, the lights had made a return, seemingly at a higher intensity than before and Parkinson had even resorted to ignoring Crookshanks at his irregular visits to the dorm. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Hermione knew it needed to stop. If Parkinson didn’t want to be friends with her, so be it, but Hermione was not prepared to spend the rest of her eighth year being sleep deprived because of her childish roommates childish antics.

Spurred onwards, Hermione picked up her bag, marching down to the library rather than sitting and studying in the room, the atmosphere in there was icy; so too was Parkinson’s side of the room which, for some reason the girl had decided to hit with a cooling charm so strong Hermione was able to feel the frostiness even through her Weasley sweater. 

It was probably intentional too.

 

Hermione stopped in her tracks as she approached her favourite table in the library. Sat around it we’re Harry and Ron, neither of whom ever came to the library by choice, and definitely not to work, which it looked like they were actually doing. 

“Not that I’m not happy about it,” Hermione began, dropping her bag and sitting down, “but why are you two here?”

Rob winced, dropping his quill and nodding his head towards Harry, who hadn’t looked up from his frantic note taking, seemingly not having heard Hermione’s question at all.

“Harry seems to be having some kind of crisis. I had to be a good friend and come along,” He smiled, looking far too amused for the severity of the situation, if Harry’s face was anything to go by.

“And you?” Hermione asked Harry. No answer. “Harry!” 

The boy looked up, a strange, pained, frantic look in his eyes which eased almost as soon as he caught Hermione’s gaze.

“Fucking hell, ‘Mione, when did you get here?” Hermione couldn’t help but snort and Harry’s absolute obliviousness to his surroundings. “God, I have had the most fucking bizzare, shitty -“

“Hasn’t stopped swearing for the past thirty minutes either,” Ron said, snorting as another string of expletives escaped Harry’s lips.

“Harry,” Hermione cut his swearing short, “Have you been hexed or something? What is going-“

“I kissed Malfoy.” 

“You what?!” Ron dropped his quill for the second time, looking at Harry absolutely gobsmacked. His expression would have been almost comical if it weren’t met by Harry’s almost horrified face in response. Ron’s already ghostly pale skin had an almost green tinge, wildly contrasted by the pink flush on his cheeks. His mouth hung open and his eyes stared unblinkingly at Harry, as if he was trying to figure out some kind of puzzle.

Hermione, despite having been aware of the chemistry between the two boys for years, was shocked. She never expected Harry or Draco to have made any kind of movement towards each other, held back by their own big-headedness and overall blindness to the others’ feelings. But, she supposed, if it was ever going to happen, it would’ve been this year. The close proximity of their living arrangements certainly… catalysed the inevitable reaction.

“And did he… you know, reciprocate?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask.

“Bloody enthusiastically, shit.” 

“So… why is this a crisis exactly?”

“It’s not! But he’s distracting me and I have work to do and-“

“Bloody hell mate, it’s been twenty minutes and he’s already corrupted you!” Ron said, coming to life with a snort at Harry’s unusual behaviour, his skin still slightly greenish.

Harry sighed, slumping his head against the massive History of Magic textbook spread out in front of him. Hermione glances over at Ron, who simply shrugged helplessly; neither of them knew where to begin with this.

“So Harry mate, does this mean you’re gay?” Hermione scowled at Ron’s tactless approach, though the question had been playing through her mind too.

“No! I mean maybe a little bit…” Harry paused, “Yeah, probably. I guess.” 

“That’s okay.” Hermione smiles, resting her hand on Harry’s.

“Fine?! Uncle Vernon would spend all his fucking time talking about queers and I don’t imagine whatever might be left of the Indian side of my family would be all that chuffed either! Who gives a shit if - “

“Harry,” Hermione stopped him. “None of that matters. Nothing Vernon Dursley has to say has any credibility and if it’s a cultural thing you’re worried about, don’t. I mean I’m Nigerian and that hasn’t stopped me.”

“Hasn’t stopped… ‘Mione are you gay? What?” Ron stuttered, turning his baffled expression towards Hermione now.

“No I’m more… pansexual. I just like people I guess,” She shrugged, turning her attention back to Harry. “Don’t worry so much, just be what you wanna be.”

Harry smiled at her, lifting his head off the textbook and picking up his quill again. The stormy expression on his face had begun to fade, relaxing the tension and the table considerable. 

Beside her, Ron snorted, “Mate whatever you decide to be, be it quick, there’s a Malfoy on a mission who looks like he’s after you.”

Hermione turned towards the door Malfoy had just burst through, watching as the boy marched towards their table, a scowl on his face. She giggled to herself at the tousled mess his hair had become and the wrinkles on his shirt; but her laughter was short lived, the closer he got to the table the clearer it became that the expression on his face was something akin to pure rage.

“Potter, you and I need to have a word.”

The colour drained from Harry’s face as he nodded, leaving his stuff behind and following Malfoy out of the library, glancing back at Hermione and Ron. Ron shot him a sympathetic thumbs-up and the pair sat helplessly, watching Harry trail off through the door.

 

The silence Harry left behind was uncomfortable, Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of parchment, scribbling down the header to her Arithmancy essay and pretending not to notice how thick the tension in the room had become.

“So, ‘Mione, what brings you to the library today?” Ron smirked, turning his attention to the grimace that formed on Hermione's face.

“Parkinson is absolutely insufferable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Harry’s mention of his Indian culture is based off of the head canon that Harry is half indian half English, hopefully no part of this mention is offensive at all, but please let me know if I should change it.  
> Hermione’s mention of her Nigerian culture is based off of my own personal experience with sexuality and my own Nigerian heritage, again, let me know if any of this is offensive and I will happily change it <3 )


	8. Rude

“Bloody rude… insufferable.... complete lack of decorum…” Harry couldn't help but snort at Malfoy’s increasingly irritated muttering as he followed after the ranting, raving, marching Malfoy who, two years ago, would've been a serious threat but was now just entertaining. Malfoy turned around, scowling at Harry's obvious amusement before turning his attention back to his warpath, muttering something about not taking anything seriously.

“Malfoy… not that I'm not loving staring at the back of your head, but where are we going?” Harry asked, they had been walking for two minutes with almost no sense of destination and Harry was getting concerned. So too was McGonagall, who had sent Harry a not-so-discreet ‘if you need help just call me’ look as the pair marched past her. Malfoy didn't answer, but Harry's question was answered when they entered the Eighth Year Tower and down the corridor that their room was in. 

Malfoy kicked down the door, pulled Harry in and cast a silencing charm, swerving around to look at Harry with eyes filled with rage and what was undoubtedly arousal.

“What the bloody hell was that, Potter?!”

Harry blinked, surprised and disappointed that Malfoy's warpath had lead them to a conversation rather than more kissing. Malfoy stares him down,  his unwavering gaze diminishing much of the confidence Harry had as he had walked into the room. 

“That was a kiss?” He replied, though it came out as more of a question.

“Yes, thank you, i was aware of that you nitwit. But  _ you _ , Harry Potter the Golden Boy, expect me to believe you're bent? This has to be some kind of joke.” Harry sighed, of course that's what Malfoy was worried about. Admittedly, Harry had surprised himself with the way he kissed Malfoy, and then even more so with the way he ran off to the  _ library _ afterwards - it all was very un-Harry behaviour. Harry had barely come to terms with his own sexuality, he could hardly blame Malfoy’s hesitation with it.

“Yes?” Harry said, though it came out as a question. “Yes.” He reiterated, with more confidence in the subject than he had had a matter of minutes ago. Something about the complete disbelief on Malfoy’s face mixed with what was quite obviously fear made it impossible for Harry to doubt himself anymore and, even more so, to let Malfoy continue to harbour that doubt.

“...Yes you expect me to believe it or yes you are…?” Harry rolled his eyes at Draco’s trepidation, leaning in to kiss the boy in response.

The kiss was far softer than their last, more gentle and languid than Harry had expected from himself and far less angry than he had ever expected from Malfoy. His hands found their way into Malfoy's hair and he fingered the thin blonde strands while his lips moved against Malfoy’s.  _ This is right _ , Harry thought. Kissing Ginny was good, but kissing Malfoy was better; the two shared a rich fiery passion that couldn’t be compared to anything he had done in the past and suddenly, the thought of his own bisexuality became a lot less scary. Malfoy was soft against him; Harry was smaller, all toned muscles due to a summer of quidditch following the war and years of fighting and sports beforehand; Draco, contrastingly was tall and lean, softer in places than Harry. They slotted together well, Harry thought with a smile as Draco pulled away from him slowly, looking down at him with a grin.

“Bloody hell Golden Boy,” he smiled, “you’re full of surprises.” Draco cut off Harry’s response before he could even say it, kissing him again and pushing him down onto the bed that they had somehow made their way towards.

* * *

“Parkinson is absolutely insufferable.”

Hermione scowled at Ron’s snort, and once again at his wholly unsympathetic “Tell me something I don’t know.” She had been trying for far too long to try and get Parkinson to either open up or shut up entirely, she needed the sleep more than anything else.

“What’s she been doing then?” Ron asked, sending Hermione on the rant of a lifetime.

“Ron I haven’t had a good nights sleep in weeks! She comes into the room at 3am every night and then plays her bloody rock music until all hours; she’s charmed her side of the room to be bitterly cold for some unknown reason and never turns off those bloody fairy lights of hers, I swear that she just  _ wants  _ me to suffer!” Hermione blinked, that was the first time she had ever outwardly complained about Parkinson. She looked over at Ron, who was watching her with a small smile on his lips. “What’s so funny?” She asked.

“I like hearing you complain,” he shrugged, closing the book in front of him and  turning towards Hermione. “It’s funny. You should do it more.” 

“What?”

“You never complain about anything  _ serious,  _ you just take it all on the chin and keep it to yourself. So when you  _ do  _ complain, you sound like a whole different person.” 

Hermione snorted, as always slightly stunned by Ron’s strange perceptiveness. It was true, Hermione didn’t complain nearly as much as she used to, after fighting a war, small things didn’t seem like as much of a big deal. She would sooner keep all of her emotions inside than make anyone worry about her. But Parkinson felt like the last straw. Hogwarts was supposed to be a place where she could get support for anything, feel comfortable and happy and relaxed in her own space. Parkinson took all of that away by making their room near unliveable with tension.

“So what’d you do to Parkinson to get her to hate you so much?” Ron asked, grinning. 

“Why do you assume I did something? It’s possible she’s just being difficult.”

“But by your answer you clearly  _ did  _ do something. Sooo… what’d you do?” Hermione could tell Ron was slightly too keen to find out; it was hilarious, for all his attempts to seem uncaring about drama, it was clear that Ronald Weasley loved the drama.

“I kind of found out her deepest secret.” Hermione winced, just hearing herself say it made it sound terrible.

“And she’s gone full defence mode, huh?”

Hermione blinked, “Yeah.”

“Well you know what you have to do then.” Hermione frowned at Ron, she had no bloody idea what she had to do, “Make it so she finds out yours.”

Hermione groaned, running her hands through her hair. Ron was right. She couldn’t just  _ tell  _ Parkinson her deepest secret, that would be too easy, she’d have to make it so that Parkinson  _ stumbles  _ upon it. So she feels like she has something on Hermione. She needs to even the playing ground. But Hermione wasn’t sure if that was something she wanted Parkinson to know; it could change things drastically, make the already tense atmosphere between the two of them completely irreparable. She could feel Ron’s gaze on her but didn’t look up, instead focusing intently on the swirling patterns of the wooden table, hoping that if she ignored Ron for long enough he’d give up. She knew he wouldn’t, but there was no harm in trying. 

Hermione conceded, looking up at Ron. “There is no part of this I’ll enjoy, but you’re right.”

Ron smiled, “I always am. Now, how’re we going to out a Hermione?”

* * *

The corridor was almost suspiciously quiet. Pansy has registered every sound as she went down every corridor but in this one, there was none. Maybe it was just some seventh years romping around in a closet with a silencing charm on, but she wouldn’t let her guard down.

Pansy had hoped that the attacks on the Slytherins would die out as time went on; she had hoped that people would eventually realise that, while she did some shitty things in the war, they weren’t always her fault. She hated that Granger knew she was a metamorphmagus; if Granger let it slip, even accidentally, her life would become infinitely worse. Nobody already trusted her because she had a dark mark, she would be even more untrustworthy if they knew she could look like anything she wanted. She could’ve been spying on them for years and they never would’ve known. Not that this was entirely untrue. The Dark Lord found out about her metamorphmagus powers by accident and had used them relentlessly; she was out spying on all of his enemies, taking refuge in muggle towns for a week to learn their behaviours in the lead up to attacks. She would skulk after wizards on the light side down Diagon Alley, constantly changing her looks as she turned street corners so as not to garner suspicion. She was a damn good spy and she hated herself for it more than anything else. Countless muggles had died because of the information she passed on; the light side lost valuable members and pieces of information because Pansy was there. There was nothing she could do but tell the Dark Lord the information she gathered, he could cast legimilens on her and learn everything and if she lied he would crucio her until she couldn’t walk. And he did. Pansy had fallen victim to the unforgivable more times than she could count. Her skin always felt too hot to her because of it; the feeling of burning and cutting and breaking on her flesh every time it was used against her stayed with her. She felt too cold to everyone else’s touch but to her, her skin was on fire.

“Who let a death eater into our school?”

“Must’ve been Malfoy”

“We all know Parkinson is his bitch”

_ Fuck,  _ Pansy swore under her breath as three eighth years popped up from behind her. Gryffindors. She knew the corridor had been too quiet, she should’ve listened to her gut and gone another way rather than walk through. She kept walking, pretending not to hear their comments and hoping they would leave her alone, this corridor was the home straight, if she could get through it she could get to her room.

“Are you ignoring us, Parkinson?” No such luck. Pansy felt a stinging curse land on the back of her head and winced, walking faster still. 

“She’s ignoring us!!” A female voice laughed, throwing a  _ stupefy  _  at Pansy, stopping her in her tracks. Another spell whipped past her, just missing her and another flashed at her, knocking her to the floor.

“Why are you ignoring us, Parkinson? We not good enough for you?” Pansy tried to flinch as she took another stinging curse to the face, but she was stuck immobile by the  _ stupefy _ cast on her. She gritted her teeth as spell after spell was volleyed at her, nothing permanently damaging but all increasingly painful. Pansy closed her eyes, thinking back to her training with the Death Eaters and working to mentally dismantle the binding spell on her. Another stinging curse slapped her across the face as the spell came loose.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Pansy gritted our, rising to her feet and moving towards her three attackers. Two of the girls looked stunned that she had made it out of their stupefy, they backed away slightly, lowering their wands.

“ _ Expelliarmus.”  _ The third girl mumbled under her breath, sending Pansy’s wand skittering down the corridor and forcing a swear word out of her mouth. “What you gonna do now, deatheater?” The girl smirked, her friends gaining back the same confidence. Pansy felt her stomach turn as one of the girls pushed her back and raised her wand to attack.

“I don’t believe I stuttered, don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a slow update! My motivation to write this went completely out the window, but I can’t back and read all of your lovely comments and I just couldn’t leave you hanging any longer! I hope this chapter is satisfying, at least a little bit. I’m already working on he next one so there shouldn’t be as long a wait for another update.


	9. Resolution

“Don’t ask.” Hermione gasped as Parkinson stormed into their shared room, blood on her knuckles and a deep, painful looking cut on her face. She walked straight into the room, past Hermione and into the bathroom, not even pausing in her warpath when she realised Hermione was in the room. Pansy’s usually pristine uniform was wrinkled, her hair was tousled and messy and her typically surly expression was outright murderous. Suddenly Hermione’s book seemed ten times more interesting than it had before Parkinson’s dramatic entry, but she knew that she should do something to help the girl out. She had clearly had a hell of a time with it.

The bathroom door was unlocked and open slightly. As she moved closer to it, Hermione heard a wince from inside, followed by a chain of expletives, followed by another wince. Hermione cringed, knocking on the door.

“No.” Came from within. Hermione pushed open the door anyway, walking in to see Pansy sat on the side of their bathtub, pointing her wand at her clenched fist and crying silently. “What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand?” Parkinson almost shouted as Hermione made her way into the room. “Merlin nobody seems to fucking listen to me today,” she mumbled under her breath, quiet enough that Hermione had to strain to hear it.

“Let me help.” Hermione said, sitting down on the closed toilet seat across from Parkinson and whipping out her wand.

“Fuck off.” Parkinson pointed her wand at her hand again and sent out the most violent looking  _ episkey _ Hermione had ever seen, wincing as her hand jerked away from the force of the spell.

“No.” Hermione looked at her, “It doesn’t need to be that painful for you to fix broken bones either, you’re just angry.” 

“Don’t tell me what I am.” Parkinson pouted, looking once again like a petulant child rather than a 17 year old.

“Shut up.” Hermione took Parkinson’s hand, surprised at the lack of resistance from the girl. She cringed, at least three of her knuckles were fractured if not broken, and she had definitely broken a finger, if it’s weird bend was anything to go by. That didn’t even count the bruising and grazing over the rest of her knuckles, and Hermione hadn’t yet begun to pay attention to the dripping cut on her face. Parkinson had clearly gotten in a fight, though with who and why she decided to forgo her wand for her fist was beyond her. She wanted so desperately to ask, but realised that Parkinson simply  _ didn’t trust her.  _ Parkinson didn’t seem to trust anyone; the fact that she was even letting Hermione touch her mangled hand was enough. Hermione turned her focus towards Parkinson’s hand, casting a few quick  _ episkeys _ and trying to not to notice how intensely Parkinson was staring at the top of her head while she did this. It only took a few minutes for Parkinson’s hand to be repaired for the most part, though Hermione didn’t have anything to put on the bruises and no idea how to heal them. 

When she tried to turn her attention to Parkinson’s face, placing her hand on her chin to get a better look at the offending cut, Pansy flinched, almost violently, in a way Hermione had never seen her do before. Hermione pulled away from her face, looking searchingly at Parkinson, who was doing everything in her power not to look at Hermione, instead focusing on the wall behind her.

“Just fix it.” She ground out, avoiding Hermione's gaze.

Hermione nodded, casting the modified  _ reparo  _ she had developed while she, Harry and Ron had been camping. The spell was near enough instant, the cut began to close before Hermione’s eyes, now she just had to turn her attention to cleaning up the blood. Hermione grabbed a cloth off the side of the sink, wet it with lukewarm water and dabbed at Parkinson’s face, but was met with another almost violent flinch. Parkinson grabbed Hermione’s arm before she could touch her with the cloth again.

“Too hot.” She said, still holding on to Hermione’s wrist with a vice-like grip.

“What…?”

“That cloth is too hot,” Parkinson clarified, her expression returning back to its usual ‘are you stupid’ face. “Are you trying to burn me?”

“No! It’s a lukewarm cloth how is it too hot?” Hermione asked, receiving a scowl in response. She sighed, turned back to the sink and wet the cloth again with icy cold water. She turned her attention back to Parkinson's face, frowning in confusion at the sigh of relief as she began to wipe up the blood with this ice cold cloth.

The two sat in almost painful silence once Hermione had finished. Parkinson was watching Hermione intensely, almost as if she was waiting for something. Hermione on the other hand was trying not to stare, hoping she wouldn’t scare Parkinson away. Dealing with Pansy Parkinson was like dealing with an aggressive and skittish wild animal. Hermione would do what she could to make sure she was comfortable, she wouldn’t stare too long or move too fast near the other girl in case she ran off or went off on one of her famous rants. If the tension in the room hadn’t been so oppressive, Hermione would have laughed. She really was dealing with a wild animal.

“Aren’t you going to ask my what happened?” Parkinson finally broke the silence.

“I want to. But I didn’t because everytime I try to talk to you you-“

“Yeah, I know.” Parkinson sighed. Hermione blinked at her, this was the closest the two had been to a heart to heart… ever. And Hermione didn’t want to push it. “You can ask what happened.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, “What happened?”

Parkinson shrugged, “Got in a fight.”

At that, Hermione laughed aloud, receiving something between a confused look and a glare from Parkinson. “I gathered that much, Parkinson,” Hermione laughed. Pansy’s response was so simple, so glaringly obvious that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “My question was more  _ why  _ that  _ what.” _

“Should’ve asked that then, shouldn’t you?” Parkinson shot back, with something of a smirk playing on her lips. “Some random girls attacked me, I got mad.” She shrugged again, feigning nonchalance.

Hermione gasped, “They  _ attacked you?!  _ Where was your wand? Have you told anyone about this? Parkinson that’s - “

“Terrible? Yes, thank you.” Parkinson's cold demeanour was back with a vengeance, “They attacked me because I can, my wand was on the floor and of course I haven’t bloody told anyone about this. Nobody would give a shit.”

“Of course someone would care, why would you think that? And what do you mean they attacked you ‘because they can’? That’s ridiculous, no they can’t!”

Parkinson scoffed, walking to the sink and washing her hands. “I think nobody would give a shit because nobody would give a shit. At the end of the day I’m a deatheater. Not only that, I’m a deatheater who tried to turn Potter into the Dark Lord. That’s about as bad as it gets. A lot of people are mad about that, their grieving, so they take it out on me,  _ because they can _ .” 

Hermione frowned, she couldn’t believe such a thing was happening in  _ Hogwarts  _ of all places. The school was supposed to be safe for everyone. Nobody was supposed to be made a victim there now that the war was over and people like Parkinson and Malfoy who had been on the wrong side of the war were supposed to be given second chances. It was all unfair. She couldn’t believe that her fellow classmates, people she had gone to school with were ever capable of such vengeful and senseless violence.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I never knew any of this.”

“Why would you?”

At this, Hermione blinked. Why would she know? The school she had seen it as her duty to protect for so many years was almost completely out of her hands. She wasn’t privy to everything that happened in Hogwarts anymore, she was just supposed to be a normal student. She had looked forward to the opportunity to be a regular Hogwarts student since she got the letter about her eighth year, but now that it was a reality, she realised just how messed up the school was in so many ways. How many things could just go under her radar without her noticing. Hermione frowned, she didn’t like it.

“Granger, it’s not your job to fix this. It doesn’t need fixing. People will just tire themselves out, and if they don’t we’re all leaving this school for good next year anyways. It’s only October, it’s been a month. That’s plenty of time for people to get it out of their system and leave us the hell alone.”

“That’s not right.”

“Is anything these days?” Pansy asked, stretching out her long legs and crossing her arms.

A small part of Hermione couldn’t believe it. She and Pansy Parkinson were actually having a conversation! No cursing or swearing or fighting, no Parkinson storming out of the room or putting up invisible force fields to separate their two portions of the room. Hermione felt like she had a roommate she could deal with. The success may be short lived, but it was a small victory.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Are you going to ask if even if I say no?” Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Possibly,” Hermione grinned.

“Go on.”

“Why have you been avoiding me since I found out you were a metamorphmagus?”

Pansy sighed, running her hands through her hair for far too long. She eventually pulled it into a ponytail, then straightened out the wrinkles in her skirt, then fiddled with her tie. She was stalling.

“If people found out I was a metamorphmagus, they would trust me even less. I could’ve been spying on them throughout the war. I could still be spying on them now and they just wouldn’t know it. So I keep it to myself and I hope nobody catches on because nobody trusts me as is, which is why so many people are attacking me and shit. By knowing, you hold a whole lot of power over me and there’s nothing I can do about it. So I stayed out your way.”

“I would hardly call what you were doing staying out my way,” Hermione couldn’t help but smirk. If Parkinson’s idea of staying out her way was making her room icy, playing loud music all the time and just keeping Hermione awake in every way possible then she was seriously confused.

“True.” Parkinson laughed quietly, shocking Hermione into silence. She had never made Parkinson laugh about something that wasn’t mocking. Parkinson actually had a really pretty laugh when it wasn’t directed at you when you’d done something embarrassing. “But considering you haven’t told anyone and I don’t think you will…”

“You’ll let me get a good night's sleep?” Hermione asked, unable to keep the hope out of her voice.

“If you’re lucky.”

“How about I tell you something nobody knows about me? And then we’ll be even.”

“That’s ridiculous, who came up with that? Weasley?” Parkinson scoffed. Hermione winced at how easily Ron’s plan fell through, and how quickly Parkinson was able to pinpoint who came up with it. She was shocked out of her thoughts by a loud laugh from Parkinson. “Don’t tell me… Weasley  _ actually  _ came up with that one? I was kidding but shit! I guess I’m a legilimens too!” Parkinson was constantly interrupted by her own laughter which, considering it was directed at Hermione, should not have been as endearing as it was. “No, but really. Tell me some shit.”

Hermione found herself laughing with Parkinson, but sobered up at her genuine request. She frowned, thinking of all the things she typically  _ wouldn’t  _ want her old bully to know, trying to conjure the best one up to reveal. She was torn, backing and forthing between two, but eventually decided she may as well bite the bullet and go all in.

“I obliviated my parents and sent them Australia.” She mumbled. Hermione felt her face heat up; she couldn’t believe she was telling  _ Parkinson  _ of all people this. 

Parkinson was silent, staring straight at Hermione for the first time Hermione could remember. The tension in the room returned tenfold as Parkinson examined Hermione after her confession and Hermione did her best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“Incredible. Why?”

Hermione blinked, that wasn’t the reaction she had expected. The awe on Parkinson's face was almost startling, Hermione didn’t know what to do with it.

“Well, it was the war. And Harry, Ron and I were about to run off to look for -. And deatheaters were attacking muggleborns parents and I couldn’t risk it so I just… made them forget me and sent them on their way.”

“That’s seriously impressive Granger. Must’ve took a lot of guts I’ll give you that. Did they remember you?”

“No… They moved around a lot I don’t exactly know where they are.” Hermione sighed, looking at her hands.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s late.” Pansy broke the lingering silence.

“What?” Hermione looked up at Pansy, noticing the girl staring at the wall above Hermione, clearly uncomfortable and unsure where to go from here.

“It’s late, Granger, go to bed.”

“Okay.”

Hermione frowned, turning out of the bathroom and back into their room. The moment she turned away she felt Parkinson’s eyes on the back of her head; she was grateful at least for Parkinson’s strange way of dealing with emotions - pretending they didn’t exist. Hermione had never been so willing to follow directions as she had been to Parkinson’s “go to bed” as at least then she didn’t need to talk about… anything.

Hermione sniffed, pulling the curtains to her bed shut and rolling onto her side. She stared at the blank curtain, trying to muster up the energy to feel  _ something.  _ Hermione missed her parents more than anything, she had spent the past year planning her trip to Australia to restore their memory and bring them back with her. She had been on the verge of tears for days after wiping their memories, but had never had the chance to cry about it and knew she never would have that chance until she brought them back. So instead she just felt… numb. She would wake up in the mornings with tears in her eyes but still wouldn't feel much of anything. Instead she threw herself into her studies, forcing herself to do double the work, double the hours so that she didn’t have time to think.

But Parkinson made her think, opened up the wounds that she had closed. Admittedly, Hermione had opened the door for the conversation out of a sense of obligation, like she owed Parkinson some feelings for discovering her secrets. And Parkinson had walked through that door, messed up the furniture and left Hermione without any sort of resolution. Parkinson had left her wanting some kind of end to the conversation and she knew she needed to come back to the conversation but, knowing her luck, Parkinson would ignore her and pretend it had never happened.


	10. Fun

The cold weather arrived near the end of October. Preparations for Halloween brought with them icy cold winds flooding through the castle’s poorly insulated walls. Lanterns began to appear around the castle, each one enchanted with leaves coloured for each of the houses. The moving staircases were adorned with autumnal wreaths designed to grow greener as Christmas approached, soft lights glittered along the banisters and, as the holiday, small enchanted bats began to flutter around the rafters and almost every hallway had at least one jack-o-lantern.

Hermione and Pansy had formed some sort of amiable agreement; neither girl would talk to the other unless it was entirely necessary. Hermione would patch up Pansy’s wounds and bruises without asking questions, but felt herself becoming more and more angry at the injustice her fellow students had to suffer. The room was still freezing cold, both because of Pansy’s strange cooling charms around her side of the room and the chilly weather; Hermione’s bed was piled with quilts and blankets and Crookshanks’ fur was thicker than it had ever been.

Hermione couldn’t help but think that the strangest thing about her relationship with Parkinson was the strange sort of friendship with the rest of the Slytherins that came with it. Twice a week she, Ron and Harry would meet Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson in the library to work through the drastic amount of work they were constantly being set. N.E.W.T.S were much harder than any of them has expected and, even after just a month, the workload was piling up. 

 

Pansy sighed, dropping her quill in resignation and looking at the parchment in front of her, hoping desperately that her potions essay would write itself. She looked up, pretending not to notice the way Malfoy and Potter were staring at each other rather than working on the essays she knew neither of them had written. Weasley was staring at his parchment too with a frown almost as intense as hers while Theo attempted to explain the reactions between pixie dust and monkshood -  _ a hopeless cause,  _ she couldn’t help but think. Granger was, unsurprisingly, the only one who was doing any work, filling in inches and inches of text in that weird, perfect handwriting of hers. Pansy frowned, somehow Granger made it seem so effortless when Pansy could barely focus for longer than 20 minutes. Pansy glanced to the left of her. Blaise was asleep.

“We’re gonna go and uhh…” Potter started, looking at Malfoy for support, ever the terrible liar.

“We’re gonna find the book on this.” Draco filled in, his tone completely cool and even; if it weren’t for Potter’s abysmal lying and Pansy’s awareness of the way the two had been eye-fucking each other for the past hour, Pansy would’ve almost believed him.

“You do that.” She smiled, watching as Potter and Draco got up and retreated into none other than the Ancient Muggle Studies section - the single most populated area of the library for couples seeking a moment of privacy.

“Those two are hilarious,” Pansy looked up at Granger, who had torn her eyes away from her essay to watch Potter and Draco’s retreating backs. 

“They really do think they’re subtle,” Pansy said, picking up her quill and twirling it in her hand. “Potter would save himself some brain cells if he would just tell us he was going to give Draco a blowie.” 

Granger snorted before catching herself and trying to school her expression into something more neutral, if not verging on disappointed. “You’re so lewd, Parkinson, honestly is it even necessar-“

“Oh, like you didn’t laugh,” Pansy snorted, rolling her eyes. Granger scowled at her, huffing and looking back down at her essay, grabbing her quill and returning to her essay with irritated fervour. Pansy frowned, watching as Granger’s dark curls shroud her head as she returned to her writing. The girl was an anomaly, it was like there was a part of her that was  _ afraid  _ of seeming fun and acting like a teenager. They were 17 for goodness sake! If Granger didn’t let loose and have a bit of fun she’d be balding by 25 and covered from head to toe in wrinkles by 30. Pansy shuddered, the idea of Granger covered in unsightly skin folds was far from pleasant. Pansy’s eyes returned to the parchment in front of her, before looking back at the top of Granger’s head but then returning her eyes back to her essay in dismay.  _ The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can go and do… anything. Anything that isn’t this.  _ Pansy thought, putting her head down and attempting the last few inches.

Eighth year wasn’t an academic venture for Pansy. She was by no means stupid, she did enough work to get by with good enough grades for her parents, but try as she might she could never really get into education. Schoolwork just wasn’t her idea of a good time. Pansy could never  _ be  _ a Hermione Granger. Sure, if she tried she could probably get more Es than As, but she simply didn’t care about that. She stood out like a sore thumb in Slytherin house at the beginning. Everyone there had academic ambitions by the bucketful, while Pansy just wanted to get school out the way so she could start really living. Pansy didn’t fit in in Slytherin,  _ until she did _ . Being an outsider really wasn’t her style; it was far easier to change the standards in Slytherin to meet hers rather than changing herself to match Slytherin standard. And that’s exactly what she did. Under Pansy’s influence, Slytherin house became a bit more exciting. Sure, the pure blood traditions stayed the same - Pansy was no miracle worker - but there was more muggle flair. Nail polish and hair accessories, short skirts instead of knee length robes. Nobody really admitted it, but muggle style had well and truly taken Slytherin by storm. Having made her mark on the house, returning to eighth year wasn’t a chance for Pansy to change Hogwarts, not was it an opportunity to pick up the pace academically, for Pansy, eighth year was a chance to start over, to get through school with better contacts than the Carrows and the other far dodgier alliances she had been forced to make in her seventh year. More than anything though, Pansy wanted to prove herself as a good person, both to others and to herself.

 

Pansy was pulled from her thoughts by the return of Potter and Malfoy, both looking thoroughly dishevelled and debauched. Pansy smirked, looking over to see Granger’s reaction to her friend’s far from decent appearance. Granger was pointedly not looking at Potter or Malfoy, but Pansy found it impossible not to notice the very audible snort she let out. Pansy rolled her eyes, watching as Granger feigned maturity and Potter feigned innocence. Draco on the other hand, did nothing to hide what he and Potter had been up to; where Potter was helplessly trying to flatten his hair, Draco allowed his to stick up in all directions and was positively leering at Potter. It was disgusting, but at least it was genuine.  _ Gryffindors.  _ She thought.  _ For open books they sure are liars.  _

 

Beside her, Blaise was regaining consciousness, blinking blearily around him before his eyes focused on Potter and Malfoy. 

“Bloody hell I haven’t been asleep that long, how did you to manage to fuck and come back in 20 minutes?” Blaise grinned at the embarrassed looks that formed on their faces. “Boy Wonder doesn’t last too long, it seems.” Pansy shrieked with laughter. A conscious Blaise Zabini was all she needed to cheer her right up. 

“Ahh go fuck yourself Zabini.” Potter said, the glare on his face slipping into a smirk, “At least I could get into Draco’s pants, I know you tried.”

Their small table broke out into laughter and ‘oooohs’ as Blaise scowled. “Malfoy you traitor!” Blaise’s expression was half smile half frown as Malfoy simply shrugged.

“I wasn’t  _ going  _ to tell him,” He said, “But Harry makes a  _ convincing argument _ .” Draco returned to leering at Potter, who turned red, but stuck his tongue out at Blaise.

Blaise huffed, “Draco, you’re cut off. Pansy, Theo,  _ you’re  _ my friends now; can we go and do something more fun than this fucking essay?”

Pansy was already packing her essay and textbooks into her bag before Blaise had finished the question, she was desperate for something more fun than working in the near silence; the only sound around the table had been Theo’s far too quiet voice explaining potions to Weasley who, if the length of the explanation had been anything to go by, really wasn’t getting it.

“Ronald is still confused by potions.” They said, not moving from his spot.

“Ronald will  _ always  _ be confused by potions Theo, let’s goooo!!” Pansy whined, ignoring the offended ‘Hey!’ Weasley shot her way. Theo shook his head and Pansy sighed, grabbing Blaise’s arm and pulling him away from the table.

“Are you guys really leaving?” Granger asked, looking equal parts baffled and disappointed.

“Yep, I’m saving myself the brain cells,” Pansy smirked, making eye contact with Granger, “I’m going to give Zabini here a blowie.” 

“You’re still not funny, Parkinson.” Granger chuckled, turning back to her work.

“That’s what you think.” Pansy smirked, dragging Blaise away from the table.

 

“Wait, are you actually going to give me a blowjob?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zabini.” Pansy paused. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”


	11. Touch

Pansy sighed, slumping down on the bed and taking the bottle of fire whiskey out of Blaise’s hand, downing half of it herself. She didn’t question why the boy had it in his bag, instead just choosing to appreciate the drink and enjoy the moment.

“You know I didn’t actually think you were serious when we left the library,” Blaise smirked, snatching back the bottle.

Pansy shrugged, buttoning up her shirt and making herself more comfortable. “Desperate times.” 

“Flattering.” Blaise drawled.

“Are you offended?”

“Not even a little bit.”

The room fell into silence as Pansy and Blaise drank, each falling into their own thoughts. Pansy hadn’t even believed herself when she left the library, the statement was made as more of a joke - an attempt to get a laugh out of the unusually uptight Granger. She hadn’t really planned of actually sleeping with Blaise; the pair hadn’t slept with each other since seventh year, when comforts were hard to come by and nobody would come within thirty feet of a Slytherin at risk of being handed in to the Carrows. Pansy huffed out a breath, it was fair to say they were in a very similar situation. Nobody would get close to any of the Slytherins unless to attack, which made finding either a bedmate or a friend difficult enough, let a partner. So Pansy and Blaise turned to one another yet again, resorting to old traditions of fire whisky after sex, and then not talking about the sex itself. Neither of them were particularly talkative when it came to their feelings, yet both of them had a lot of feelings. The sex was just a stress reliever, but it was the moments afterwards that really mattered. Pansy liked to leave the lights on, faint but colourful and, in the moments afterwards, the pair would lie in the coloured light and enjoy the silence. This was where Pansy found her escape. 

Silences in the Parkinson family were frequent, but oppressive. Her mother would often ignore her for months on end as she grew up to teach her a lesson for her bad behaviour. She would go weeks on end attempting to get her attention to no avail, the house elves would be instructed to ignore her too - until all of a sudden the conversations would start again. Her mother had seen that she had learned her lesson and everything would return to normal. Pansy had grown to hate silences after that, she would sooner fill them with anything, choosing to talk about nothing at all than sit in the silence alone with her thoughts.

Blaise had taught her to love the silence. In his house, silence was hard to come by and so he languished in it, enjoying every quiet, conversation-free moment he could get a hold of. The moments after the two would sleep together would be a comfortable silence; Pansy could think about how and why she had ended up in bed with one of her best friends yet again, and Blaise could think about whatever Blaise thought about. The magic of it was, neither would know what the other was thinking, because nobody would share it.

“Are we really doing this again?” Pansy asked, turning her head to make eye contact with Blaise.

“Are we breaking the no talking rule?”

“Yes.”

Blaise sighed, staring at the fairy lights Pansy had strung around her bed frame. They were the only source of light in the room, casting warm white and rainbow coloured sparkles all over the room. In the light, his dark skin was almost purple, and Pansy’s pale skin was a pastel blue. The silence in the room wasn’t heavy, but expectant. Pansy’s head rested against Blaise’s shoulder and she stared at the side of his head, watching thoughts and emotions flicker across his face.

Pansy loved Blaise dearly. The two, along with their other Slytherin friends, had been friends since birth, deemed appropriate playmates for one another, despite being from entirely different parts of Europe. Distance didn’t seem to matter in pureblood families, and so their attachment to one another began. Pansy loved Blaise in the way one would love a very close friend. The two were there for each other through thick and thin. They had spent their seventh year fighting against the Carrows under the radar, which brought them together in a way that Pansy didn’t share with anyone. Pansy loved all of her friends equally, but differently. Draco had spent seventh year fighting for his life, Theo had spent seventh year fighting to survive, but Pansy and Blaise had spent seventh year fighting all sides. They couldn’t join the dark side wholeheartedly, but the light side hated them too, so the two were forced in the middle and left to work their way through it together. 

Both of them were very starved of affection. It came with the territory of growing up in a strict pureblood family. Touch was hard to come by unless it was in punishment. At first, both Blaise and Pansy hated to be touched, they hated the vulnerability that came from affection. So did Draco, and Theo. They were a group of people who, despite being friends, wouldn’t come within five feet of each other because the contact was too uncomfortable. That all changed when the war happened. Touch became a form of comfort, the group grew together as they would hug each other in times of turmoil and, in terms of Pansy and Blaise (and previously Pansy and Draco) sleep with one another when the days got difficult. They went from a staunch and clinical lack of affection to complete comfort with one another, choosing to squash onto a too small sofa or table and essentially sit on top of one another rather than be separate.

“I think…” Blaise started, grabbing  another bottle, seemingly from nowhere, “I think this isn’t the best idea. It isn’t sustainable to keep doing this, and if we keep it up the way we did last year we’ll be alcoholics by Christmas.” Pansy laughed at that. 

“But that said,” He continued, “It’s hard, you know? We did so much shit in the war, I wasn’t even marked and I did so much I can’t imagine what it’s like for you and Draco. We did so much shit and we were just kids and - I tried to go and see a mind healer over the summer.”

Pansy blinked, she didn’t expect that. “And what happened?”

“Nobody would take me. We’re only seventeen and we’re supposed to do all of this alone? It’s near fucking impossible Pans I just-”

Pansy reached up to touch the side of Blaise’s face, turning his head towards hers and forcing him to look into her eyes. “I’m here for as long as you need me, Blaise.” She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his, pretending not to notice the tears on his face. *“не грусти,” she said, smiling at him and sitting up.

**“Ti amo, Pans.” Blaise smiled.

 

The lingering moments of silence were interrupted by the loud creak of the door opening and three rather horrified looking Gryffindors standing in the doorway gawking at them. Pansy looked down at herself, taking in her incorrectly buttoned shirt and complete lack of skirt. The blanket half covered her, but the damage had already been done: Potter, Granger and Weasley were already staring at her and Blaise in horror and confusion. 

“How many bloody languages do you people  _ know?!” _

“Is drinking all you purebloods do?” 

“Oh, so you weren’t joking then?” 

 

The three of them fired their questions simultaneously, not having moved from the doorway. Pansy sighed, really regretting not putting a locking charm on the door. Or at least a sock on the door handle.

“Which question do you want us to answer first?” Blaise drawled, presenting a strange amount of confidence for someone just caught crying and shirtless.

“Latin, Russian, Italian, French, German and, some of us, Mandarin.” Pansy said, standing up and pulling on her skirt, smirking at the efforts taken by the trio in the doorway to avert their eyes.  _ It’s almost as if Gryffindors have never seen underwear before. _

“Drinking, sex and looking down upon others, that’s what a pureblood is made of.” Blaise smirked, taking a swig of firewhiskey, “Ronald, you’re a pureblood, is that not what your free time looks like? And yes, it seems she was serious Granger.”

Pansy rolled her eyes at the massive change Blaise had undergone in the three seconds since the door had opened. If nothing else, Slytherins were good at hiding emotions. The trio in the doorway looked deeply uncomfortable, almost painfully so, and Granger looked like she was about to say something disapproving.  _ That simply won’t do,  _ Pansy thought, taking the bottle of firewhiskey from Blaise’s hand and depositing it in Granger’s.

“This is as much your room as mine, Granger.” Pansy said, turning her eyes firewhiskey red and shooting Granger a wink, “Make yourself at home.” The small distance between the two girls made it impossible for Granger to hide anything, and Pansy heard loud and clear the little intake of breath as her eyes changed colour. She prayed Potter and the Weasel didn’t see it, but hoped Hermione got the message.

Pansy turned abruptly, leaving the Golden Trio in stunned silence. “Blaise, be an absolute babe and get Draco and Theo would you? Oh, and put on a shirt, your abs are lovely, but not for polite company.”

“Why are Malfoy and Nott coming?” Potter asked, still from his position in the doorway.

Pansy smiled, “We’re having a party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “Dont be sad”  
> ** “Love you, Pans”  
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I wanted to explore how the Slytherins managed after the war and how they came to be friends in the first place! I hope nobody is too mad about the Pansy/Blaise pairing here, don’t worry too much, Pansmione is still going to happen!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a new fic! Comments and criticisms are more than welcome, I hope you enjoy!


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